


Wasten Coridale

by E_S_Rosencrantz



Series: The Living Engines [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Action & Romance, Anthropological nerdery, Archaeology, Assassination Plot(s), Bad decisions all around really, Don't copy to another site, Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Addiction, Dwemer - Freeform, Dwemer Ruins, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Excessive headcanoning about Dagoth culture, Excessive headcanoning about Dwemer culture, Excessive headcanoning about Redoran culture, Gen, House Dagoth, House Redoran, Ill-fated Romance, Lorkhanic lore, Multi, Mystery, No one is the game protagonist, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-05-13 05:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 96,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_S_Rosencrantz/pseuds/E_S_Rosencrantz
Summary: It is the first years in the last century of the Third Era. The Blight hangs above Morrowind, an ever-looming threat and the reminder of a past that the Dunmer long sought to put behind them. In the grand Redoran capital of Blacklight a string of unsolved murders and unsanctioned assassinations has brought the attention of Archmaster Drelethyn Venim Redoran to the darkened corners of Baan Malur’s underbelly. To S’en, who bared and bloodied her teeth to survive, this underbelly has been all she had ever known.When unexpected circumstances cause their paths to meet, the highest and lowest that Redoran society has to offer find themselves crossing the Inner Sea, to Vvardenfell, to save their own minds from the insanity that threatens to consume them.





	1. Nchusal, 1E 657

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel as though you recognize this work, you most likely do! It was posted on Ao3 a while ago before I removed it to do some heavy editing. But it's back up now and hopefully will have somewhat-consistent updates. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [10/11/2019] The typos, grammatical mistakes, and narrative inconsistencies in Parts I and II should all be corrected now. If any remain and catch your eye, please let me know.

In the quiet of her office, a sound was misplaced. Something that shouldn’t have been there, but demanded to be recognized despite its intrusive nature.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

Once, she had heard the heartbeat of a child, deep within its already deceased mother’s womb as the physicians rushed to save the infant. But this was not the same as those small, automatic contractions of the yet-to-be-born. Nor was it akin to the frantic, steady pulse that thrummed beneath her own skin. She couldn’t describe it. The gentle pulsing felt like it came from a place removed from the Mundus; from the material and the real. And the heart was not small, not young.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

In the dim light of her office, Cor stood, her work forgotten as she listened. The heartbeat, though it should be buried beneath the constant hum and hiss of machinery, seemed to exist entirely separate from normal tonality, undisturbed and unheeding of all other sound. Consistent. Beckoning.

_Come._

She walked down the halls of Dwemer metal and bedrock, the electric bulbs casting long shadows that wavered in the flickering light as she passed. Down she travelled, descending cold spiral staircases, passing beneath pipework that breathed and hummed with steam and humidity. Had this tower other tenants, the sound of her footsteps upon the metal grating in the late hour might have been concerning. But the only life in these walls was her own, and the only heartbeat she had heard was her own. Until now.

She crossed the threshold between metal walkway and dry, cracked soil, stepping out into the harsh landscape of the outside. The research tower of Nchusal loomed behind her; a sentinel of peculiar and crooked construction, yet mathematically faultless, rising from the volcanic rock as though it had grown there. Ash-filled winds blew around Cor as her feet took her across the iron bridges and beyond the reaches of the tower's fortifications into the wasteland beyond. She felt her mind growing soft, her thoughts falling in time to the beating of the heart. She knew these actions were unwise. She should have supplies.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

Her concerns were all stripped away, scattering with the ash on the wind. Her mind was empty as her footsteps continued to carry her toward the dark stone hills of Red Mountain.

She did not know how long she had walked before the peak of the volcano lay before her. It could have been hours, it could have been days. Time had lost all meaning to her. Her pace remained steady even as she approached the fuming mouth, feeling hot breath and smoke emanating from Red Mountain's core. The ash which should would have stung her eyes and choked her lungs refused to touch her as she continued on. Cor was mindless of this, as mindless as she had been of anything so far.

Her next step met air.

Clarity rushed to meet her as her body pitched forward, the world turning on its axis as she plummeted into the depths of the crater. Air rushed past, screaming within her ears, tearing madly through the cloth of her robes and drowning out the sounds of her own shrill cry. The descent seemed eternal, and for a moment Cor felt suspended, abated as she awaited the pain of her own death by fire or by stone.

The impact came with a startling suddenness, ash billowing around her as she landed heavily. Her eyes stung as she blinked in the filtered, low light. She coughed; bruised, shaken, but alive, which in itself was more than she expected. Another breath confirmed her ribs to all be intact; confirmed her growing unease, her lack of pain unnatural and wholly wrong.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

Cor’s fingers scrabbled along the skin of her neck, knuckles striking the heavy metal ornaments that hung from her ears as she sought out her own pulse. It fluttered beneath the pads of her fingers, contradictory to the slow, methodical beat echoing along the dark stone. Cor twisted, peering through the haze as she tried to locate the source of the foreign heartbeat.

She was not alone.

A flicker caught her eye, and she lifted herself, stumbling as she walked toward the incandescent pulse.

The ash cleared as she drew close, and Cor had to suppress a gasp as a raw, burning energy struck her, the pressure nearly bringing her to her knees. Cradled in a bed of ash and ember there lay a heart, too vast and radiant to be anything but the rumored Heart of the sundered god LKHAN, he who created mortal life, the betrayer, the trickster.

Cor took a step forward, and LKHAN spoke.

_“Come.”_

When she had imagined the voice of a god, it was dismissive, final, and devoid of warmth; much like the voices of those who sat atop the hierarchy of her people's intellectual echelons.

LKHAN’s voice was none of these things. The Heart of LKHAN spoke with an unanticipated benevolence; a tenderness and cordiality that Cor would have never thought to conceive in her own musings. Silken, near-condescendingly so, but likewise immovably stern. An expected weight, considering the sheer importance such a being held.

_“Come closer, child of the Machine. There is reason for my beckoning. Come, closer.”_

Cor found herself once more stepping forward, walking until the Heart smoldered in the ash mere paces from her feet. It was an imposing thing, much larger than the heart of a mortal being. She could feel the heat of it upon her skin, warming her to the bone. Somewhere within her, Cor felt the primal urge to run. But stronger was the need to stay and hear what it was He had to say. The Heart laughed, as though He knew of her conflict.

Perhaps He did.

“ _Come. Tell me, what do you know of the Machine of Life?"_

Cor’s lips parted as to speak, but no words broke the silence between them as she found herself without anything to impart.

" _You doubt yourself rightfully. I can tell you what you know of my creation; nothing. You know nothing. But that is not to be ashamed of. Potential is born from nothing. I am the only one who truly knows of the workings of the Machine. Now tell me, if the Machine were to cease its function, what do you think would happen to you?_ "

Again Cor didn't answer; not from a lack of response, but rather having realized that she was not expected to speak, merely listen, as the god provided the answers to the questions he posed.

" _Clever child. The answer is nothing. You would become nothing. Rather, you would cease to exist completely. There is no place for beings as defiant and malleable as mortals in the greater existence-without-reality. Your permanence is an incitement to those who still remain in the_ Stagnancy _; Come join us, come grow, come_ Change. _The Machine of Life is a thing of growth. But like all constructions, it needs to be maintained. Without that, your reality very well may die, and you with it. Or it may not. There is no way of truly telling, now is there? Regardless, as it remains, I cannot fulfill the task of cultivating the Machine of Life. But I shall not stay this way, for you will aid me in returning to what I was and was not.”_

“Why would you need _my_ help?” Her eyes narrowed, as her natural suspicion rose. LKHAN was, perhaps above all, the least trustworthy of any god, if the stories were to be believed. Such stories, currently, were the closest thing to fact as she had available. “And furthermore, why should I help you?”

Again, the Heart laughed, a harsh discord that left Cor unconsciously bristling at the sound.

_“Do you have a choice?”_ The Heart said mockingly. _“Do you like being alive? You are like your people—prone to skepticism and yet subject to the constant yearning for new knowledge. The Dwemer once stood as the epitome of the Machine’s capabilities. Now, you serve to be exemplary of the Machine’s potential to fail. Do you realize it, child? Do you see the decay in your culture? The fundamental core of the Dwemer is dying. You know this. You fear that your people’s path will end in ruin. And, without intervention, your fears will be realized._ ”

LKHAN’s words left Cor without any of her own. It was as though He had dug into the recesses of her heart and pulled from it the black truth, stealing the breath from her lungs as He did so. Her legs shook. She didn’t seek to right herself as she fell upon her knees. The movement stirred up the warm ash to softly drift through the stale air, the Heart’s light filtering through the haze. Red. The voice in the Heart remained silent, its beat the only sound to be heard as He waited for her to speak.

She could see the decay he spoke of, the deep-rooted concern that strung itself heavily between her ribs. It had not escaped her, but it was not her right to speak these worries aloud. Someone of higher standing must. Someone of higher standing had yet to call it to attention.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

“How do you know this?” She said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. He made an indignant sort of sound, something akin to a scoff or a chuckle but not quite either.

_“I am the origin of all mortal life, my child. I created you, and your mother, and her mother before her. It is my nature to know of these things. Your people are one I hold a particular interest in. I enjoy your denial of that which others claim to be irrefutable reality, instead choosing to find your own answers which may not be there. The decline of such a culture would find challenge in escaping my notice.”_

Conversation fell silent once more. Cor did not speak as she kneeled there, the Heart a patient presence before her as she wrung her hands in her lap and turned her thoughts inwards. Before this moment she had not let herself think on her concerns for long, disclaiming her doubts, telling herself that they were born of a softness and not of proper logic and hard reason. Now, these suspicions were found to be of utmost importance, and yet more difficult to discern than they were when she actively denied them.

_“Perhaps this will aid in your deliberation?”_

With the lilting suggestion came a recollection; a long forgotten memory, from when she was still a child, woefully unlearned for how short her time in the world had been. As an Architect, her father had been called to convene with some of the most influential members of Dwemer society, gathered there to discuss the potential of a proposition that was brought before them. She remembered this having been a pivotal moment in her father’s career, an opportunity to display his worth among his fellow Architects. The conference was to take place in the city of Wasten Coridale; the famed House of Invention, the gilded cradle of all ingenuity. In them lay the Hanging Gardens; a living history of nearly all flora to ever exist. Fragrant necromantic flowers that feasted upon carrion. Gnarled, bone-pale trees whose beauty was found in the fruit that hung heavy from their boughs. Among those scents and spices was where greatest minds their civilization had to offer met, strolling amid the electric-cast shade of the foliage as they discussed and debated with one another. Where progress found origin. The Hanging Gardens stood as the paragon of her people’s endeavors.

Then came visions of things she had not personally seen; small city-states and research towers rising from the ashes of Vvardenfell, the mass exodus and expansion that led to the great citadels becoming abandoned, Wasten Coridale among them, empty of all but the animunculi left to maintain the Hanging Gardens. The expansion that was said to mark the end of an era and lead to a new future saturated with progress and knowledge. 

Unintentionally or by sabotage, the Dwemer were beginning to lose the knowledge of technologies they once built, technologies far more grand than the constructs they regarded with pride now. The great inventions and prototypes Cor’s father had seen in Wasten Coridale, that he had told her of, no longer existed. Even so – a realization that sent Cor’s skin prickling – the Corale was doing nothing to remedy this situation. Information was slowly being parsed from the lives of the Dwemer people… how did no one notice?

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

Cor didn’t know how long she had been kneeling there, though the ache in her legs suggested it hadn’t been an insignificant amount of time. Her knees protested as she rose to her feet and dusted off her robes. She folded her hands and straightened her back, looking down upon the Heart with a false confidence that she could only hope was convincing.

“Under the circumstance that I aid you, you in return will aid me in turning my people from corruption and ruin. Is this what you are saying?”

_“More or less, precisely.”_

“What is it you want?” she said.

_“What I seek is a champion—a mortal coil through which I can operate and maintain the health of my Machine. I seek your help.”_

“And so I would live solely to serve you?”

_“You already serve me, speaking technically. Your very existence stands as a contradiction to all those who scorned my imperfect creation that is Life. But if it is your free-will you fear for, fear not. I have no interest in robbing you of that.”_

“Very well then.”

_“Am I to take this as an agreement, Cor Istec?”_

Requiring clear consent. Cor pressed her lips into a thin line, giving her concerns a final consideration before she shook free of them.

“Yes. I will do it.”

LKHAN’s Heart laughed, a low, pleased chuckle, and she did not know if what she felt was terror or elation. Perhaps both.

_“There is more to be said, but the moments for them will arise in the coming years. For now, we shall let history go forth as it always has. You shall bring word of my Heart to your people. Plant the seed of this new idea into their minds and await my call. It shall come.”_

With the final word spoken, the light within the Heart faded, whatever primeval force that tenanted it now absent. Cor stood for a moment. Then, tentatively, curiosity took hold and she found herself reaching toward the Heart, toward the heat—

—to find herself standing outside the threshold of Nchusal, hand extended toward the empty ground.

Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. She dropped her hand to her side, staring out at the looming form of Red Mountain, masked by the ash blown on the hot winds. The gust pulled at the fabric of her robes. With hesitant steps, Cor turned to the doors of Nchusal, her eyes only leaving the shadow of Red Mountain when she was nearly straining her neck to look over her shoulder.

The research tower greeted her with the familiar sounds of hissing machinery and turning metal. The halls rang hollowly as she walked back to the flickering light of the dying bulb in her office. She halted on the threshold, taking in her surroundings. The warm metal of the walls and furnishings, tapestries of simple depiction hanging as a minimal attempt at decoration. Reports, manuals, and scrolls cluttered every available surface. Cracked spines and pages yellowed by the machinery heat ever-present in the research tower. As Cor looked over the sheaths of paper, the work that she had thought to be vital now merely seemed trivial. Purposeless. Columns and rows of information that would serve no purpose if the Machine of Life falls to the rust and wear of negligence.

Understanding would not be found through collection of knowledge. It would be found through nurturing what had been created, watching it grow and thrive.

Her bones seemed to creak as she finally stepped into the confines of her office, the door falling shut as she moved and took a seat before her desk. The metal pressed against her back as she let herself relax into the embrace of the chair. Stiff, uncomforting, but a reprieve nonetheless as she suddenly grew all too aware of the ache in her feet. Above, the electric light continued to flicker, its undulations growing more and more rapid before finally, with a loud crack, it burned out. 

The light from the hall shone through the crack of the partially opened door, casting a thin line of light that drew a path from the threshold up to the burnt out light above Cor’s head, the fixture humming with electricity, trapped and without output. She ought to change the bulb.

_Change._

She closed her eyes, the darkness greeting her with the memory of Lorkhan’s Heart, pulsing as it rested in the ashes of Red Mountain. A sound.

_Thudum, thudum. Thudum, thudum._

Reaching blindly, her fingers wrapped around the switch of the radio. She flicked it on.


	2. Red Lantern District, Blacklight, 3E 401

The dark corners of the room were heady with the aromas of sweat and incense and spice. Dirty nails scratched at her collarbones as S’en watched the flame tremble in the womb of the red paper lantern that hung above, her thoughts impassive as she ignored the rancid breath of the man who labored above her. She barely noticed the pleasure-pain of the her client’s exertions, her mind solely focused on the itch that had begun to crawl beneath her skin. 

Her client grunted, bearing hard and deep, and S’en bit her lip to silence the hiss of pain that threatened to escape them. She could tell from his labored breathing that he was close, and that soon she’d be left to her sweet, bitter solitude.

The mer gripped her shoulder, shaking her roughly. 

“Work for me,” he growled.

Pressing one hand sprawl-fingered to his chest, S’en none-too-gently pushed the man onto his back. He took her roughness as interest, a crooked grin on his face as he dug his nails into her thighs when she straddled him once more. For all his pretension, he failed to last much longer than that, his features turning to something vulnerable and disgusting as he sweated and twitched and came. S’en lifted herself from him, falling to the side to watch as her client made quick work of dressing himself in his silk finery, intricately patterned and richly colored. Some nobleman of a respectable clan, nervous and twitch-fingered at the prospect of being caught in one of the infamous Llevaros whorehouses. It was easy to imagine in her mind. He would return to his life and try not to think about the purchase he made for a dark room, a few threadbare cushions upon a sunken bed, and a half-lucid prostitute who satiated his cravings of pleasure and lust. Until he returned, that is. 

They always returned.

Her client fled with the closing of the door, with the anemic creak of old hinges that longed to be replaced. S’en lay prone, nude upon the old mattress, the smell of incense, sex, and mold hanging in the hot, stagnant air. Her pelvis throbbed with an unfulfilled need that she willed to subside.

The itch beneath her skin grew, insistent. Pleading. With a shuddering groan, S’en rolled herself from the bed, dropping to her feet first, then to her knees, onto the floor. She pulled away the rug laying there, a threadbare but finely-detailed thing, as though it once belonged on the floor of someone wealthy before falling into this pit. S’en handled it with care as she folded it and placed it aside. 

The floorboards creaked as she worked at one in particular, the wood digging splinters into her fingers as her needy hands pulled it from the fastenings. Years ago, she may have paused, may have sought to stop herself, just to see if it was possible to do so. But it had been long since she had last tried. She already knew that the itch beneath her skin was stronger than any willpower she harbored in her tired bones.

S’en’s breath quickened as she pried the board away, revealing the dark space beneath. She reached down and brought forth a small bag, dumping the contents into her hands. Pills. Small, irregularly-shaped pills. She crushed one of them against the floor, grinding it to a dust before lowering her face and taking a deep breath, one nostril plugged by her thumb.

The effects were instant.

S’en reared, coughing, feeling her heart pound in her ears and seeing the room around her swim violently with a new clarity. She bent over to take another hit. Grime and dirt followed as her nose gathered up the remaining powder, whatever she could get. Her mind raced, her senses spiked. The itching eased, and S’en sat back, coughing harshly once more as she wiped the remaining powder that clung to her nostrils onto the back of her hand. There. Now everything was as it should be. Everything was fine.

The pills were returned to the bag and tossed back into their space beneath the floor uncaringly. Now that she had gotten her fix, they made her sick to look at, a reminder of her weakness and her debt.

She hauled herself to her feet, stomping the floorboard back into place before she began to strip the bed of the soiled blankets. They were soft enough, made of mainland cotton, of a milky white when they were clean. S’en would argue they were the one pleasant thing she owned, kept that way only by her self-imposed diligence in keeping them that way. Gathering the sheets in her arms, she placed them aside to wrap herself in her threadbare robe before retrieving them once more and making her way from the room. The hall was empty, quiet aside from the distant laughter, grunts, and moans from the adjourning rooms. S’en felt herself flush in embarrassment at a particularly loud moan that arose from a door as she passed, shameless and wanton. _Fetcher_ , she thought, _have some self-worth_. 

A door at the end of the hall opened to a stairwell, old and wooden, undoubtedly built with the intention that they would be used by low-class servants and few others. She descended the steps with a practiced ease, feet seeking out the places where the wood lay sturdy and avoiding those where it threatened to give. The laundry greeted her with the pungent smells of sload soap and lye. _Khefer_ always made her skin feel tender after, and the thick steam that clouded the air caused her eyes to water and her flesh to sting. The room was low-ceilinged, walls lined by tall paper-doored storage cupboards. They held linens, mostly. Some battered robes of various lengths for when a new girl began to work at the whorehouse. One cabinet in the far corner held much more valuable things; expensive spice salts, oils, perfumes, to be added to the laundering water to scent the linens. These were things that Mistress Midrosa kept for highly valued customers; Dunmer of House rank, whose titles were heavy and pockets were, perhaps, heavier. 

When S’en was a child, too young for work but too old to be clinging to her mother’s side, she used to hide herself away in the laundry rooms, curled in the corner, smelling all of the different perfumes and admiring how the lantern light caught on the bottles.

Once, she even dared to rub a small droplet of oil into her wrist. She’d spent the rest of that day with her nose pressed to the flesh there, smelling the foreign scents of rose and something she couldn’t name and imagining herself to be someone far away; someone who could afford such things as rose oils to rub into their dry skin. The Mistress had caught her then, wrist held to her nose. The beating she’d received for her theft and selfish waste of such an expensive thing had left her with a broken rib and killed within her any desire to go near that cabinet again.

The clay floor in the least was cool beneath her bare feet as she padded over to one of the large wooden vats that took up the room. Taking up one of the laundering poles, she swirled it about the murky water, making sure the vat was empty before she hefted her linens up and eased them into the steaming vat.

“S’en!” 

She startled at the distant shout of her name, head whipping around to look at the stairwell at the end of the room. The Mistress was nowhere in sight, but S’en could hear her footsteps come to rest at the top of the stairs. For a moment, S’en mused about hiding away and ignoring the Mistress’s summons. The thought of rebellion lit something in her chest.

“S’en! Come up here!”

S’en’s eyes drifted to the perfume cabinet. She swallowed thickly.

With one last stab at the linens floating in the vat, she placed aside the pole and quickly made her way to the stairwell once more. Mistress Midrosa stood at the top. From where S’en stood in the dim light of the laundry room, she could not make out the expression on the Mistress’s face. 

“Yes?”

“I said come _up_ here, child. I would have words with you. _Now_.” The Mistress stepped back, leaving S’en’s line of sight. S’en ascended, using her hands along with feet to climb the steep stairwell quickly. Midrosa came into view once more, and S’en could see now the pinch in her brow and the thinness of her pressed lips. Unthinkingly, S’en fixed the robe more carefully about her beneath the Mistress’s harsh gaze. Her stomach turned uncomfortably.

“Yes, _muthsera_?” She repeated, more carefully this time, the honorific a specific touch.

“You’re not taking enough clients. I have been kind enough to overlook the matter before but you’ve grown lazy. Saints preserve me, I work too hard for you wretched girls and I expect for you to pull your weight in return.”

S’en suppressed the urge to flinch, biting her lip harshly.

“Well?” The Mistress snapped. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“You’ll get your money.” The words were mumbled, angry, bitter things that S’en spat out. The Mistress let out a sigh, and S’en felt a soft hand on her cheek, directing her gaze from the floor and up to the Mistress. The woman’s eyes were full of pity.

“Oh S’en, you poor thing.” Her thumb stroked along S’en’s cheekbone. “Pulled into the same filthy habits as your mother had. If it weren’t the only thing that you had left of her, I would have put a stop to it long ago.”

The rage was immediate, flaring hot in her chest and sending her heart racing. _No you wouldn’t have,_ S’en thought, as she stood stiff under the gentle touch. S’en’s addiction was what kept her here, forever strung between paying with her coin for the drugs and paying with her body for the debt of years of a miserable childhood spent here before she was deemed “old enough” to work. There was never enough for both. S’en knew this. The Mistress knew this.

Nails dug into the flesh of S’en’s cheek as the gentle touch turned cruel, Midrosa holding her jaw with an iron grip. 

“You are indebted to me,” the Mistress said, cold words reflecting S’en’s own thoughts. “Until you pay off your debt, you belong to me and will work for me.”

S’en pulled away from the touch, the nausea that had been growing in the pit of her stomach too strong to ignore.

“Yes _sera_ ,” she said, before turning and fleeing down the steps into the laundry. She heaved at the pungent smell, barely making it off the last step before she emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor. She sat there, kneeling in her own sick, until she was able to stop her dry heaves. Her lungs burned as she sucked in a shuddering breath.

This was the price she paid for keeping the itch from under her skin, the price to not feel good even, not anymore, but to feel normal. Lifting herself to her feet, S’en looked down at herself, the thin knock-knees of the young and the strange ash-rosen brown skin that belied her uncertain heritage. Not Dunmer, not entirely. Certainly not of any worth.

In the dim light of the room, S’en’s skin had long since turned a blushing pink beneath her scrubbing before she felt as though she’d washed the bile from her flesh.


	3. Red Lantern District, Blacklight, 3E 401

The whorehouse was perhaps no noisier than usual, but filled with sounds different than what S’en was used to. Far more words and far less grunting.

The Mistress had announced in the morning that the evening had been reserved by a client of significant political influence, and that he had done so with the intention of entertaining others of equal rank. S’en knew that the Mistress saw this as an opportunity to potentially draw more customers among the higher ranks of the ruling House Redoran. Business was difficult to find in those corners, considering the House’s dedication to honor and bleak outlook on life. They were the serious sort, above petty things like the pleasures of the flesh and other such indulgences. 

Or so it was said. 

Determined to succeed in her efforts, the Mistress had ordered the girls to spend the day cleaning the brothel. Many of the women had complained at the labor, physical but not of the kind they were used to. S’en was more than content in the laundering room, stomping on the sudsy linens when they were dry and beating at them in the vats with the long wooden pole while they were wet. The other women were happy to let S’en take care of the linens, trading the responsibility of washing their own in exchange of washing down S’en’s room for her. They couldn’t stand the smell of sload soap, they said.

S’en was pulling out the linens from the vat, her old skirt rucked high about her thighs when the Mistress came down into the laundering room. That alone was surprising enough to cause S’en to pause; the Mistress hated this room. S’en knew that better than anyone.

The Mistress grimaced at the tub S’en stood in. Without a word, she crossed the room, opening the perfume cabinet in the far corner and retrieving something from its depths.

“Put this in the laundry.” The Mistress handed her a small glass bottle, unlabeled. “ _Try_ to not use too much now. That shouldn’t be too difficult even for you.”

S’en waited until the Mistress had vanished up the steps before she held the small bottle up to her nose, sniffing delicately.

Rose oil.

She pulled the bottle away, lips curled into a sneer as she glared down at the precious vial in her hands. The unspoken threat weighed heavily in the scent; the Mistress remembered what had happened last time S’en had donned this perfume, and knew that _S’en_ remembered it as well. There would be no room for apathy tonight. The client was someone of importance, and he _would_ leave pleased.

After a moment’s consideration, S’en upended the entire bottle into the steaming water. 

She resumed pulling the linens from where they soaked, shaking from them the remaining chunks of sload soap before she unceremoniously dropped them into the scented clean water. S’en could not help the smile that stretched her lips as she breathed in the aromatic steam; a petty victory, one she might escape retribution for if she pleased tonight’s clients well enough.

It was worth it.

 

✥

 

It was rare that S'en had a moment of reprieve. They were fleeting, stolen things, nearly worth more to her than the drug her body craved more than sleep or breath. Nearly.  
Standing in the center of her small, worn-walled room, S'en awaited the arrival of a client, a broad-shouldered man who had interrupted her dancing to pull her into his lap several times throughout the evening, incessant in his pursuit. She had murmured sweet words into his ears, her touch soft when she stilled his wandering fingers and told him that there were places hidden behind doors for such things.

Wait but a moment to follow, she had said. Third door down the hall, she had told him, before slipping from his grip and capturing for herself a few, precious moments alone to recompose herself. 

S’en let out a deep breath and stretched, scratching at her lower back, the coins slung from her hips jingling with the motion. Her skin itched, but the feeling was faint. She could push it aside for now.

A muffled scream came from far beyond the door, but S’en ignored it. Probably nothing more than a client with vile tastes; it would not be the first time. She combed her fingers through her hair, the long dark strands tangling about her fingers. Pain shot through her scalp as she pulled at the snarls.

A shout of alarm, then more commotion. Banging. More shouting. S’en stilled, listening. Her heart lodged itself in her throat as it came upon her that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

She wrenched open the door and was struck immediately by the smell of blood. The powerful odor sent her reeling, and she covered her nose with a hand as she squinted in the faint light of the hall.

Another scream rose from below, high and terrified, and she could hear it clearly now; the scuffling of feet, furniture breaking, the voices of man and mer shrieking in the din.

A sane person would have ran, would have hid, might have called the authorities if they themselves had no reason to be prosecuted. But the smell of carnage had left S’en with a sense of morbid curiosity amid her terror, the need to know what was happening greater than the need to flee. There was a moment’s hesitation before she gave into impulse, creeping quietly down the hall and silently making her way to the stairs.

Halfway down the steps, her bare foot met with something hot and wet.

S’en looked and saw through the dark a woman’s body slumped against the turn of the stairs. Her naked breasts were slick with blood that oozed from a wide gash in her neck, head hanging at a strange angle, her expression wide-eyed and opened-mouthed in death. S’en had known this woman. Not well, but she had known her. Iszari. That was her name. She had liked Iszari despite her being a Redguard, a certain understanding struck between them as the only two brothel workers who weren’t Dunmer.

Yet all she could think about was how pathetic this death was, how hopeless the struggle would have been. 

Another scream, close by. The heavy sound of flesh hitting the floor.

With one last lingering look at Iszari’s fallen form, S’en carefully stepped over her and crept to the base of the stairs.

The main hall was littered with corpses; bodies of patrons and prostitutes alike caught in the fray. Blood and entrails slathered the cheap finery that decorated the place, the air warm with a thick, horrible stench.

A large, dark mass flew through the air, colliding to the wall not but an arm’s-breath away from S’en. She choked on a scream as she was sprayed with blood, the mass falling to the floor with a thud. She could see it now, the newly fallen corpse at her feet. The head was gone, the stump of a neck weeping red.

S’en looked away, returning her attention out to the center hall. She saw the Redoran guards, their bonemold armor grinding and weapons flashing in the midst of some kind of struggle. But for all she looked she could not find their attacker.

Wait—

_There._ The whistling sound of a blade cut through the air as a weapon wedged itself between a guard’s armor and her helm. The woman went down in a gurgling cry, blood oozing from the fatal gap in her armor. A dark form whirled past her fallen body. An assassin. There was the flash of a blade as they batted away another sword. They swiftly roundhouse-kicked the guard’s knees, bringing him down. S’en saw a hand reach out from the strange moving haze and plunge its fingers through the guard’s protective visor.

The guard’s body disintegrated, armor parts falling into a heap.

S’en stifled a cry, covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror, stuck on the ashen remains of the guard. No mortal could simply do that, just reach out and reap a man’s life with a mere touch.

She could not get a look at the figure before the assassin moved again. Their blade expertly sliced the hand off a guard charging toward them, sending the guard’s mace flying, before another spiraling swing took off the guard’s head entirely. It arched through the air before landing with a dull thump in the darkness. The body fell.

S’en’s eyes drifted away at this scene, looking once more over the dead. Noblemer, prostitutes…

_They will leave no one alive,_ she realized. A petrifying fear gripped her heart.

A shriek. A gurgle. S’en lowered herself the ground and began to crawl toward the nearest weapon; a heavily-bloodied sword that may have belonged to one of the patrons. 

The murderer’s feet flew into the chestplate of the last remaining guard, sending her reeling. They landed expertly before launching themself forward once more, sword poised directly before them like a lance. The strange blade pierced through the bonemold armor, and the guard choked on her last dying breath. Her body slumped, and the killer dislodged the blade, ridding the weapon of blood with a smooth flick of the wrist.

S’en could see the assassin now that he stilled. Tall, imposing. He turned his head to look at her, red eyes stared out from beneath his hood. She stilled, paces away from the sword that lay abandoned on the floor.

S’en’s mind suddenly conjured the image of Iszari, slumped on the stairwell, dead with her neck sliced. Had she even tried to fight? Or did she simply cower at the sight of this lone man before he snuffed out her life?

He dashed forward.

Instinct overcoming her, S’en threw her body aside, dodging the assailant’s attack. She heard blade sweep past, missing her head by less than a hand-span. S’en staggered a moment before throwing her weight back at the killer, but he had already moved.

She reeled, regaining her balance. Reaching, she gripped a broken chair by its back. With a scream, she threw the chair at her assailant. He dodged, then was forced to move again as S’en continued pelting him with whatever she could reach; a cushion, a candle-holder, a ceramic bowl that shattered loudly against the wall

“You—” S’en hurled a broken table leg, “—will not kill me, you bastard son—” She snatched the sword of a fallen guard from the ground, her fingers wrapped tight around the bloody hilt. Whirling around, she raised the weapon to strike, “—of a half-priced flea-ridden— _!!_ ”

Something slammed against her spine, forcing the air from her lungs and shocking her senses. S’en collapsed, coughing hard, tense as she waited for the blow that would kill her.

But instead there came a question:

“Why?”

S’en flinched at his voice before realizing she hadn’t been struck. She still held the sword in her hand, and despite lying doubled-over and temporarily paralyzed, she gripped the bloodied hilt tighter.

“Why—why _what?_ ” she rasped through a momentary lapse in coughs. S’en felt the murderer grab her arm, and she struggled against his hold, snarling at him as he lifted her to her feet. Her wrist was twisted roughly, her fingers opening in response. The sword clattered to the floor. The assassin quickly kicked it away.

“Why do you stand for a life so miserable?” he asked. “Does this life of squalor and shame mean so much to you that you’d willing to defend it to your last breath?” 

S’en felt her lips pull back into a snarl. 

“I _don’t_ , you _s’wit_ ,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his grip. He let her go this time. “I hate this place. I was planning to leave as soon…” her voice trailed off. As soon as she broke from her addiction, as soon as she had the money to pay off her debt rather than spend it all on drugs. “…I could have left here. There _is…_ ” 

It had been long buried in the haze of her mind, but she _had_ something to live for—a life beyond the one of prostitution she had been born into, beyond the debt and drugs and sweat. Beyond, even, the cluttered, labyrinthine slums of Baan Malur.

But she had waited too long. It was too late for that, now. Now, she would be cut down, a miserable wretch among the others whose deaths none would mourn.

In one last act of defiance, S’en turned her head to look at the man, to stare beneath his hood and into those red eyes—the eyes of a Dunmer, a _Dark Elf_ in the tongue of soft-skinned foreigners, eyes that all natives of Morrowind shared. She refused to drop her gaze.

“Kill me and get it over with,” she spat.

The mer returned her stare in silence. S’en took a shuddering breath, but it got caught in her throat as she heard something coming from street beyond where the brothel doors hung from their hinges. Shouts, footsteps. S’en’s eyes widened as she looked down at the blood on her hands. It was too late to escape. Would the guards assume she was responsible? Would they kill her? It might be possible to lie still among the corpses, but as soon as the noble dead were removed, they would surely burn this place to the ground… 

She caught a brief glance of the red robes of a Redoran inquisitor through the doorframe before her view was suddenly obscured by the close presence of the murderer.

“Here’s your chance at another life,” he murmured. Before S’en could say anything, she felt a sharp strike to the back of her neck, then nothing.

 

✥

 

S’en awoke. Her breath caught in her lungs, heart racing as she sat up, frantically taking in her surroundings. For a moment, she was still surrounded by carnage, blood pooling across the floor, the wide, lifeless eyes of Iszari as her open chest wept red. Then, the visions were gone, and S’en was alone, gasping for breath in the quiet of an unknown cellar. Her body ached as she stood, sore limbs and bruised bones protesting every movement. The itch beneath her skin was a violent, persistent thing; if S’en had to guess, she would say it was what brought her back to consciousness. S’en had dug her nails into the flesh of her arms before she realized it, and she exhaled harshly, pulling her hands away and holding them out before her as she tried to forcefully ignore the urge to tear at her own skin to relieve the feeling.

Somewhere in the room arose a shuffling sound. S’en froze, suddenly and distinctly aware that she was, in fact, _not_ alone.

She turned, aches forgotten, itch forgotten, as she immediately lifted her hands to fight off whomever hid in the darkness. There, across the room, sitting on the bottom step of a stairwell, was the assassin. He watched her quietly; she could feel his gaze on her, inquisitive, though she could not see his eyes beneath the shadows of his hood.

“So, you’re awake,” he said.

“I—“ she started, “You—…” her words came up short as her mind tried to sort through the events of the day. Her hands dropped. Her patience with herself was thin, and she shook her head in frustration before gritting out: “Where are we?”

“Still in Baan Malur,” he said; an answer, but not a specific one. “A safehouse of sorts. We need to move. It is only a matter of time before they begin scouring the city.” He stood, and S’en immediately stepped back, hands raised once more. He stilled at that, then spoke again, softer this time. “I have no intention of hurting you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.

“I brought you here to give you a choice. You know as well as I that, had I left you there, you would have perished or be thrown behind bars to suffer a longer death. Though I had originally intended to merely kill you myself out of pity for your state, you changed my mind.”

“How kind of you,” she replied, her voice laced heavily with sarcasm, which the stranger ignored.

“You have a few options; you could stay here, fall back into your previous life of shame, and be eventually found and executed by House Redoran’s order. Even if you were to reveal my identity, House Redoran would undoubtedly off you to tie up loose ends. You could also leave and strive to travel to a neighboring town, though without money or supplies you would have to go by foot and likely die along the way, by hunger or the ashlands or being impaled by a wandering kagouti. Or you could attempt to steal the money for travel, but with a lack of experience it’s possible you will be caught, which will only serve to give House Redoran a lead on your location.” He ticked the options off on his fingers as he spoke, each one making S’en more angered than the last. Pausing, he gave her a long knowing look, clever eyes tracing the welts that trailed down her arms, drawn there by her own nails. “Besides, if you were able to obtain some stray coin, it wouldn’t be travel that they would be spent upon, would it?”

“Well aren’t you _clever_ ,” she spat, giving into the urge to scratch as the itching grew stronger. The intensity would fade in a moment, she knew, coming and going in undulations. “Is that why you kept me alive? To mock me? Do you see me as being weak for being born into a life that I have spent _years_ trying to escape? It is because of _you_ that I’m stuck now. And look at you. You’re an assassin, aren’t you? And _you’re_ mocking me? You’re no better than a heap of guar shit, _murderer_.”

No sooner had the insult left her lips than he moved. S’en threw her arms around her head, curling in on herself as she waited for the mer to beat, rape, or kill her for her words. Her heart pounded in her chest, mouth set in a premature grimace. She heard him exhale harshly.

“Lift your head. I will not harm you,” he said with far more calm than she had expected. 

Slowly, she looked up, to find that the mer had merely stood, remaining paces away from where she huddled. S’en felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment and shame. She knew how she must look, eyes red-rimmed and wide, limbs shaking as she tried to force her body to ignore its cravings.

He finally approached her, kneeling to her level.

“Your other option,” he said slowly, “would be to come with me.”

“What, as your personal whore? _Fetcher_.”

“As my apprentice.”

“Convincing. And what would I become in this? A killer, like you?”

“No.” He shook his head and extended his hand for her to take. “You would become free.”

“ _Free_ ,” she repeated. The word felt heavy on her tongue. “Through murder. A high price to pay for freedom.”

He smiled. “There’s always a price to pay, my dear. You know that better than most, I suspect. Now tell me, what is your name?”

She stared at his hand for a long time. For a moment, she considered trying to flee; if the assassin were true to his word, he would not pursue her.

But where would she go? She had no freedom, even now. Sure, she could leave the red-lantern district, leave Baan Malur, but the assassin’s words had all been true. She would end up selling her body for the next hit once more or would end up dead on an ash dune, which ever came first.

She, quite literally, had nothing to lose.

“S’en,” she responded, taking the offered hand. He pulled her to her feet with care.

“S’en,” he repeated, as though testing it, before he released her hand. “Lovely name. I am Reven Serthi and, from this day forth, your mentor.”


	4. Blacklight, 3E 401

The red-lantern district was no more pleasant than the last time he’d been here. A den of hedonism and sin, wrapped in cheap decadence and shame. Drelethyn should have put an end to the existence of the district long ago, but had hesitated to do so on the basis of the Llevaros clan being significant economic sponsors of the Redoran Guard; a patronage that, shamefully, they would be crippled without considering how much debt House Redoran still remained in from the wake of the recent war. Llevaros was wealthy from their unsavory investments and paid Redoran handsomely to overlook the matter. Drelethyn had known that there would come a time when Llevaros over-extended their reach, or proved themselves incapable of managing their own assets. 

The crime scene was a modest building, of the same insectoid inlaid-clay build that marked Redoran architecture. A tattered banner fluttering beside the entryway announced the place to be _Mistress Midrosa's House of Negotiable Affections_. The door groaned in protest as he pushed it open, hanging from one hinge, the other broken from where the inquisitors had bashed it in. Inside was a grisly sight; the sweet, noxious smells of offal and the reek of feces hung heavy in the air. Pale-robed temple healers had already arrived at the site, carrying away the noble dead to be burnt and their ashes and bones to be placed in their ancestral tombs before the carrion flies scented the reek of death and came to sow the flesh ripe with fat, bloated maggots. With Baan Malur as populated as it was, they did not need another blood rot outbreak. 

Drelethyn walked to where two pale-robes crouched beside one of the fallen; the healers looked up as he approached and quickly rose to their feet to offer their _khenas_ before moving aside to let him inspect the corpse. Further in, the Guard Captain noticed his arrival and made his way toward where Drelethyn stood.

“Archmaster Lord Drelethyn Venim—” his greeting was cut short by Drelethyn’s lifted hand; he had no interest in hearing the full extent of his lengthy title, though he knew it was only spoken in respect. Such accolades always left him irritated.

“I see what you meant by ‘unusual circumstances’, Captain,” Drelethyn commented as he looked down at the corpse. Normally, it was below Drelethyn’s duties to investigate any form of crime himself; he, along with the Council, served as judge and jury. Not prosecutor. But the Guard, famed for their bravery and inability to be shaken had been unnerved by the nature of these deaths. It was enough that he determined a need to see for himself.

“Yes. We were considering the possibility of post-mortem tampering, but considering the quick response of the inquisitors it seems highly unlikely. The victim seemed to have died this way.”

Though having only perished mere hours ago, the corpse seemed to be in an advanced state of decay. Or part of it, in the least; the legs, sprawled, were a sickly ashen hue, the skin already falling away, revealing muscle and bone beneath. The torso and head he presumed would look the same if there was anything left to it; from a bed of dust it lay in, a skull gaped up at him, mouth open in a silent scream, the bone as perfect and untouched as the ribs and spine until it disappeared beneath the disintegrating flesh of parts still intact.

Drelethyn lifted his gaze, noting the small dunes of dust that littered the room, bones among them.

“The Temple will have to call upon the ancestors to identify these for proper burial,” he remarked. He and the Captain stood aside respectfully as two pale-robes carried a body by. “Is there any form of identification regarding the patrons?”

“This was found in what we assume were the mistress’s chambers.” The Guard Captain held out a small sheath of papers; letters, it seemed, as he took them and rifled through, scanning the pages.

“Part of a longer correspondence, I take it.” The letters were mundane for the most part, but a few caught his attention; particularly the planning of a large gathering at this hovel to celebrate the promotion of a man proud of his accomplishments. Though the letter had been signed with vague initials only, the details of the promotion specifically were enough to bring a certain clan patriarch of good standing to mind.

“Well, that presents a problem, now doesn’t it?” Drelethyn’s words were mumbled, spoken more to himself than any other as he looked over the carnage in the room. The man was member of an old clan, respected among House Redoran though they had long given up their heritage as warriors in favor for mercantile pursuits. The murder of their patriarch would not settle well, and Drelethyn suspected the matter would only become more tenuous as the other noble dead were identified. The red-lantern district, the scum-ridden underbelly of Blacklight, was the territory of House Llevaros; they would have to take responsibility for the genocide, and be punished for it. The prosecution of the assassin would have to be helmed by Llevaros, lest he wanted the other lesser houses of House Redoran turning to insurrection in the name of justice. The criminals of Baan Malur seemed to crawl either from the red-lantern district or to it, like moths to a flame, and despite repeated warnings to House Llevaros regarding the need to oversee their tenants more closely, the number of violent murders had only grown. He supposed it was time to grant them the fire they asked for.

“Once the dead of any importance have been removed, have the inquisitors burn the rest,” Drelethyn commanded.

“The rest of the dead?” The Captain asked.

“The district. All of it.” Drelethyn turned on his heel and left the whorehouse, ignoring the startled look and sputtered affirmative of the Captain alongside the graceless scrambling of his personal guard as they made to catch up with his abrupt exit.

House Llevaros had long since been testing the line with their unethical black market dealings, and the red-lantern district served only as a blemish on the otherwise glorious city. Its burning would not be publicly mourned, nor its residents missed. Perhaps privately, but no Redoran with honor would admit to it.

And to Redoran, honor was everything.

 

✥

 

Baan Malur was grey with the latening hour, the thick fog that rolled in from the Waning Bay hanging heavy over the coastal city. The wind that blew ceaselessly over the high plateau Baan Malur was built upon did little to dispel the fog, only ensuring that the damp chill seeped through the layers of Drelethyn’s armor and robes to sink into his bones. Even now, the Rootspire was a sight to behold. The meeting hall of the Redoran was a grand structure of resin frame and clay walls, towering and stalwart where it sat nestled in the heart of Baan Malur. Consequently, the Rootspire was also where the Venim manor was located, as tradition dictated the Archmaster to live within the Rootspire during their tenure.

It would be both an understatement and a redundancy to state that Drelethyn was in a foul mood. Usually a man who prided himself on his composure, his frustration and short temper was, evidently, apparent enough; those who would normally greet him upon his return, or seek to catch him for private council or mere conversation, gave him wide breadth. He commented not on it, remaining silently grateful for the rare opportunity to be well and truly let alone. He walked quickly through the warm, low-lit halls of the Rootspire, with their sturdy walls and columns and elegantly curved ceilings inlaid with patterns of geometry and flora.

He reached the manor wing without incident. Three members of his personal guard – Saren, Romoran, and Llevru, he recognized them to be – idled about the main hall. Romoran was speaking to the other two, gesturing animately. She was seated on a bench near the circular base that held a decorative interior garden, spikes of trama root and rosen-petaled fire ferns growing from the ash they had been planted in. The guards stood out among the warm, muted colors favored among the Redoran, the bronzed metal of their Dwemer armor bright in the firelight as they spoke lowly among themselves. The talk ceased abruptly as Saren noticed his presence; she smacked Llevru’s to alert the others and they quickly stood to attention. Drelethyn passed them without comment, barely offering a nod in acknowledgement. 

“ _Muthsera,”_ Llevru called out after him. Drelethyn turned to look at him. “Councilor Bolvyn moments ago came seeking an audience with you.”

“Tell him it can wait,” Drelethyn groused.

“He’s… already in your office _serjo,_ ” Llevru said.

“We already tried to tell him you weren’t seeing anyone but he didn’t listen,” Romoran explained.

“Let me guess, he cited clan relation as his reasoning to ignore that,” Drelethyn intoned. Romoran spread his hands out before him in a gesture of helplessness, palms out and fingers toward the floor.

Drelethyn pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling harshly. 

“Our apologies, _serjo,_ we could…” Saren began, but Drelethyn waved her off.

“I will deal with it. My cousin’s behavior is not your responsibility.” Their responsibility was to make sure he didn’t end up dead in a pool of his own blood among other things; on that front, the Venim Guard had been successful. Tense familial relations weren’t what they were trained to deal with. Drelethyn himself would deal with his elder cousin.

Bolvyn was, as Llevru had warned, already in Drelethyn’s office, having made himself comfortable in one of the two ornately carved wooden chairs set off to the side and leafing through a book from Drelethyn’s personal library. Bolvyn looked as though he were welcome there, spitting in the face of the fact that he most certainly was _not._

Drelethyn cast a quick look about the room, searching for and failing to find any obvious evidence of Bolvyn tampering with anything.

“Cousin,” he greeted.

“Archmaster,” Bolvyn closed the book and placed it on the side table, not bothering to stand. The bitterness that Bolvyn spoke the word with never escaped Drelethyn’s attention. “You have returned. And the Llevaros brothel—?”

“The brothel was as the Captain reported. And, as was decided, will be dealt with _by_ Llevaros. The district will be razed as punishment for Llevaros’s lack of oversight on their property as the Council determined—that is the _only_ action we will take directly until need be. The last thing the city needs are the inquisitors knocking on every door and demanding the residents prove their innocence or else be arrested. As I told you earlier, inciting widespread fear will _not_ help bring the perpetrator to justice.” 

“The last thing the city needs is a serial murderer on the lose.” Bolvyn did nothing to hide the sneer from his expression. “Razing the district will do nothing. You are letting this assassin escape.”

“They have already escaped,” Drelethyn snapped. “My refusal to terrorize my own people and sow suspicion between neighbors has nothing to do with it.” 

“But it has everything to do with you, now doesn’t it?”

“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

“Nothing, for now,” Bolvyn replied cryptically. He stood, and brushed past Drelethynonly to pause at his shoulder. “But if you soon find yourself facing accusations of a weak leadership and undermining the virtues of House Redoran, be sure to look elsewhere for your sympathies.”

Drelethyn glared at Bolvyn’s retreating form as his cousin disappeared down the hall. An ache in his hands brought his attention to where he had them curled into fists in his swallowed fury, white-knuckled and near-trembling. Without a moment’s further consideration, Drelethyn unbuckled his sheathed sword from his waist and laid it on the desk before ridding himself of his heavy robes in favor of soft trousers and a lack of shoes. Leaving his sword where it lay, he left his office for the training quarters, determined to burn off the anger that ran hot in his chest — an emotion that Bolvyn seemed all too eager to bring to the surface at any given opportunity.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow the head of House Llevaros would stand before the Redoran Council and the families of the noble dead, and be held responsible for bringing them justice. Drelethyn prayed that it would be only a matter of time before this could be put behind them.


	5. The Rootspire, Blacklight, 3E 401

From where he stood atop the tiered platform, Archmaster Drelethyn Venim Redoran cut an imposing figure; face hidden behind the mask of the ceremonial master’s helm he wore, shoulders bearing the proud jut of the bonemold pauldrons and iridescent wings of the long-extinct Lorkhan Scarab; slain by Venim’s own hand. Before hunted to extinction by House Redoran, entire settlements would at times driven to famine and death by swarms of the giant scarabs. The Lorkhan Scarab became symbolic of the challenge of life and the struggle to overcome; in rite to become kinsman of House Redoran one would have to track and slay a scarab in the heart of the ashlands with naught but a spear and a helm. It had been decades since the last of these rites was performed. Rumor held that Archmaster Venim was the one to slay the last of the proud scarab immortalized on the banners of House Redoran, a testament of the Archmaster’s admirable length of rule and strength as a warrior. Ireur Llevaros had always thought the rumors untrue; a falsehood designed to elevate the Archmaster’s image in the eyes of common citizen. A man who slew the last of the greatest plague birthed from the ashlands. 

The retainer that had led him into the room offered the Archmaster a _khena,_ prostrating as he fisted his hands together and held them before him. Ireur repeated the gesture, his tongue prepared with the appropriate sweetened words and titles to appeal the Archmaster to his plea. From the sides of the room, the living relatives of those dead from the massacre in the red-lantern district stared from their seats with judging eyes. 

“Archmaster Lord Drelethyn Venim Redoran – by Grace of _Almsivi_ – Chief Councilor of the Redoran Council of Morrowind, Lord of Baan Malur, of the Province of Morrowind, and of Ald-Rhun, of the District of Vvardenfell, of the Province of Morrowind.” The introduction was a low-voiced droning delivered by a bystanding kinsman, entirely unnecessary outside the tradition that demanded its announcement. Ireur’s own introduction was passed over; the Archmaster knew well who he would be meeting with. Or so it was assumed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Venim’s sharp demand stalled any flattering words that Ireur had to offer, throwing him.

“Pardon my intrusion, _muthsera,_ ” Ireur began, “I—”

“I believe—” Venim interrupted, “—that I was to meet with the patriarch of Clan Llevaros. You are not Orvyn Llevaros.”

“My father is ill and was unable to attend such a meeting. The bed he lies upon may very well be that of his death, and so I have come in his place.”

“Not the patriarch, but soon to be.” Drelethyn Venim kissed his teeth; a disapproving sound. “Very well. And you know why I have summoned you here…?”

“Ireur Llevaros, _ser._ ”

“Ireur.” The Archmaster tilted his face ever-so-slightly toward a man who stood nearby; Ireur hadn’t noticed him before, silent in presence. Upon taking notice Ireur realized that he was not only in company of the Archmaster, but in that of Councilor Athyn Sarethi, whose own rise to power was a relatively recent matter, the news of it spread by its novelization. _The Hope of the Redoran_ , Sarethi was called. Ireur’s cheeks hottened in shame at his oversight as the Councilor wrote something down upon a book he held.

“I—” His voice cracked unpleasantly, and he cleared it quietly as he could. “This is regarding the House of Negotiable… the brothel.”

“This is regarding the recent _massacre_ that took place upon lands that your family holds, Llevaros.” Venim’s tone was dry and unforgiving. “Long have I overlooked the immoral and unsavory business that your family promotes in faith that you would uphold the code of House Redoran and maintain the values of duty, gravity, and piety. Instead I find that my good conscience has been betrayed by your greed and depravity, which in its festering _rot_ has led to the deaths of men and women far more honorable than you.”

“We have—” Ireur tried, fruitlessly.

“ _You_ have lacked responsibility and apparent capability to manage the resources that you own. You have disgraced our House and befouled your reputation within Baan Malur.”

The sweet words that Ireur had so confidently prepared lay shriveled on his tongue, and he swallowed them thickly in shame. He could not see the Archmaster’s eyes, but he could feel them, their weight boring into him, sharp enough to pin him where he stood.

“Well? Do you have anything to say, Ireur of clan Llevaros? The families of the fallen dead await explanation.” 

Ireur was not unused to challenge; it was the pith of Redoran, from the inhospitable ashlands their great city rose from to the rites of passage and ceremonial trials that one faced as children and into adulthood. But for all his confidence and self-assurity, he had been unprepared for the force of the Archmaster’s anger. Furthermore, he was backed into a corner by the unexpected presence of the families of the nobility that had been slain. The Red-Light Massacre, they were calling it. Ireur had come to offer a balm, to smooth the situation over, to appeal himself to the Archmaster and establish himself as the new leader of House Llevaros while mitigating the damage caused by the incident. Now he found himself standing trial, the one in need of mending. 

“I have no explanation to offer, and little other than my grief at the passing of the honored dead and their wrongful end,” Ireur said after a moment.

“Pathetic,” came the reply. He flinched with the sting of the word. “You come here with nothing to offer to those who you have wronged.” The Archmaster paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, before continuing, “I, however, am not without mercy, and will grant you a chance to redeem yourself.”

Ireur straightened at that, trying to hide his eagerness. 

“You are to track down the unsanctioned assassin who killed those  who cannot stand here today and bring them to justice. Then, and only then, will clan Llevaros be able to redeem themselves in the eyes of House Redoran. If it takes years, if it takes a decade, so be it. It will be done. Do I make myself understood?”

Ireur bowed deeply in respect, the movement surprisingly difficult to do smoothly beneath the heavy, boring weight of the Archmaster’s gaze.

“As you said. It will be done, _muthsera_ Venim.”

“Good. This meeting is adjourned.” 

Only as the attending members and Ireur himself picked at their heavy robes and elegant silks and made their way from the room, walking or shuffling as age allowed, did Drelethyn take a seat. In the quiet of the now-empty hall, he reached up and pulled the master’s helm from his head, holding it in his lap. He sighed, letting his head rest against the wall behind him as he closed his eyes.

One who did not know Drelethyn personally would see only the unwavering strength and confidence of the man who had successfully lead House Redoran for nearly two centuries. But Athyn Sarethi knew Drelethyn personally. The weary curve to his shoulders and the dark shadows around his eyes had not escaped Athyn’s attention, and as such this moment of vulnerability was not surprising.

“It’s growing worse,” Athyn commented. Drelethyn glanced at him from the corner of his eye and offered a noncommittal grunt in response. “A cure must be found soon, or else the entirety of Redoran could come to compromise.”

“Flattering, but I highly doubt I’m capable of that much destruction when enthralled,” Drelethyn replied blandly.

“I meant that the integrity of the leadership of the House would be threatened. You know as well as I there are many on Morrowind’s Grand Council who would be more than willing to take advantage of any seeming weakness in our rule. We can’t afford another House War, internal or otherwise.”

Drelethyn exhaled harshly, nostrils flaring with the force of it as he raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m _aware,_ Athyn.”

“I’m merely concerned, Drelethyn,” he responded, placing a hand on the Archmaster’s shoulder. “As a friend.” 

“I know that as well,” Drelethyn conceded. “You are and have always been one of my most loyal supporters, to a point where even I questioned your logic at times.”

Athyn chuckled and shook his head. “As though I have not questioned your logic many times. You’ve yet to prove my faith to be ill placed.”

“Yet.” Drelethyn stood, rearranging the folds of his robes around him to allow room for crossing his legs, ignoring the protesting ache in his shoulders from the heavy mantle of scarab wing and bonemold they wore. “Is the priest present to fulfill his part?”

“Tuls Valen?”

“Whoever.”

“I believe there has been no change of plans, yes.” Athyn let his hand drop from Drelethyn’s shoulder, returning his attention to the records book he’d been holding earlier.

“Remind me to vote in favor for that proposition of his when the Council next meets. Between the preparations for Triune and his efforts for aiding in curing me of this… affliction, he has more than deserved my support on the matter.”

“Duly noted. Meanwhile, join me for a drink? I would say you’ve earned your annual evening of self indulgence,” Athyn quipped, as he finished looking over his recording of the trial – written by him solely due to Drelethyn trusting no one else to handle such sensitive matters – and tucked the book beneath his arm.

Drelethyn remained still for a moment more, eyes staring out at something Athyn could not or did not see, before he shook his head as though clearing his thoughts.

“Well, considering no hangover will oust the headache this ordeal has given me, I see no reason not to indulge.” He stood, clapping a hand on Athyn’s shoulder as they left the great hall for more comfortable quarters.


	6. Cormaris, 3E 403

Over time, S’en had learned a few things about Reven.

He, for the most part, was almost unnervingly even-tempered, but when his temper got the best of him, he would lash out, snake-tongued, immediately going for the most painful and effortless strike. S’en hadn’t found herself to be the target of his frustration more than a few times; it seemed that when Reven’s foul moods overtook him he preferred to simply ignore her presence entirely. It would hurt, if S’en were of weaker heart. But she had long since grown accustomed to being acknowledged only when something was wanted from her, and thought nothing more of it than being the way most people simply _were_. Self-serving and careless. S’en herself was no better, after all. Sainthood was far from her fingertips. 

Reven was also someone disturbingly good at what he did, and had every intention of making her the same.

It was a trade, one more lucrative and less self-compromising than her former one, so S’en had little qualm with it. Death wasn’t viewed here the same as it was among human societies. For Dunmer, life was a challenge in which they would prove their worth to their ancestors, whom they would join in death for the eternal pilgrimage. The parting of life was remorseful, but it was not the end. The dead would be missed but ultimately rejoined. Assassination just quickened that reunion.

The illegality of Reven’s trade wasn’t that he was an assassin, but that he operated outside the realm of the Morag Tong, who served as the assassins sanctioned by Tribunal law. The Morag Tong operated as an alternative system to allow the Houses to settle their squabbles among one another without it escalating into a House War, which were often far more devastating than a single death would be. Reven, on the other hand, accepted any contract regardless of whether it’d bring political satisfaction or turmoil, so long as there was enough coin to pay for his efforts. 

Reven himself was the one who explained these complexities to her. Before, she had merely assumed one assassination was like the other, with little intricacy beyond a knife between someone’s ribs and coin for a corpse. He openly admitted, upon her asking, that he once served the Morag Tong, but had left. A difference in interests, he called it. A gut feeling let her know not to pry into whatever that meant. 

Operating outside the confines of the law led them more often than not to be on the run from it; they rarely stayed in one town for long, and never after Reven had carried out a job. They travelled by foot or by guar-back, foregoing the quicker transportation of boat or silt strider to avoid being tracked. S’en silently hoped that someday she’d be granted the opportunity to ride on the back of a silt strider; the massive, stilt-legged insects looked so graceful when she had the luck to spot one in the distance, towering over the ashen landscape as it strode in slow steps that carried it far, seemingly unaffected by the winds that buffeted it. 

Even so, S’en got to see more of Morrowind than she had ever thought she would. For most of her life she assumed that she would live and die in Baan Malur, in _Blacklight,_ looking at the same clay towers and huts with the same scarab-marked banners and silk ancestral tapestries that spun in the wind on their metal spires and brackets. But with Reven, she had found herself traveling much of the western swath of the province, from the prosperous bazaars of Ienethis to the hot-winded ash yam farms of Senie, and most of the outposts and towns between. Reven never strayed too far east; the territories of the Houses Telvanni and Dres brought too much uncertainty and strife for the business he may get from there to be worth his time, he said. 

Reven continued to train S’en throughout. Her fingers and hands were littered with the scars of her mistakes, the awkward fumbles with the dagger he had given her. When she wasn’t practicing becoming familiar with the dagger and its movements, Reven would assign her to follow someone – often a random bypasser, but sometimes Reven himself – for hours with the intention of not being seen, caught, or suspected by her target. It was a way to practice stealth without enraging the law too badly if she were to be caught. There had been some close calls, but so far S’en’s unassuming presence had continued to serve her well. 

Which was what led S’en to be here, crouched on a roof ledge in easy viewing distance of the house that she’d been watching for well over two hours at this point. Her target for the day – a portly human merchant, Redguard if his dark skin were anything to go by – had vanished into the hut after she’d tracked him for the better part of the day and hadn’t emerged since. S’en knew that half of the purpose of this training was to temper her patience. Nonetheless, she kept finding her thoughts wandering to the growing ache in her feet. 

S’en shifted her weight to one leg. Then after a fair bit, the other. It did little to help. Eventually she gave up and stood, determining that the hut she’d been watching must belong to the merchant and that it was unlikely that he was to emerge. The day was drawing to a close as it was.

She dropped from the roof onto a lower level, and then to the ground, rolling to ease the impact. Dust clung to her clothes as she stood, and she brushed it off absently. She made her way through the narrow sunken streets of Cormaris, buildings rising high above her head as she passed. 

The safehouse Reven had secured for them lay on the edge of town; it was one of many cave-dwellings, small homes carved into where the volcanic rock stood tall, the cliff a wall of the plateau where Blacklight rested miles to the north upon the highest point. Making sure no one saw her approach, she slipped inside, closing the makeshift wood-plank door behind her.

The dwelling consisted of a single dirt-floored room, with a short table and two stools acting as the only proper furniture aside from their bedrolls. The remains of a cooking fire still smoldered in the modest clay hearth, the room warm with its heat though it looked to have gone out hours ago. It was clear that Reven hadn’t been here since he left early in the morning.

Fetching a log from the firestack, she tossed it on the ash and embers, agitating them to catch on the tinder. Hooking her foot on the handle of a nearby basket, she dragged it close to her as she fetched one of the stools and sat upon it. In the basket were ash yams, the lumpen, imperfect red roots that grew so well in the ashen soils. With a dulling iron knife, S’en began to make quick work of the skin, peeling it away from the less blemished inside. 

Idly, she wondered if Reven was fulfilling a contract. He hadn’t mentioned it, but then again, he didn’t always. Regardless of her training and common knowledge of what assassination entailed, S’en had no experience with what killing someone must be like. She had never seen Reven carry out his work… aside from the day they met. But that had not been the methodical, precise art that Reven spoke of when describing how he had learned to take a life under the tutelage of the Morag Tong. That had been chaos. That had been a mistake.

S’en’s hands paused. Her gaze drifted to the ashes of the fire, the embers glowing warm as the flame crackled and spat.

She thought about it frequently. More than she would ever admit. Not the massacre itself, nor the death, but of the sight of the Redoran guard crumbling to ash beneath Reven’s touch. S’en did not know what form of magic that was—if it was magic at all. For the past two years the question had always been on the tip of her tongue, but she had never gathered the courage to speak the words aloud, unsure of what Reven’s reaction may be, unsure if what he had done – what he was capable of _doing_ – was something heinous and profane. Unspeakable.

Cutting the ash yams in half, she used the knife to gouge a deep pit into the center of each. Into these she cracked a small kwama egg. The eggs were nearly entirely yolk, and sat bright within their dull red-brown root cradles. Taking the uncarved halves of the yams she had set aside, she replaced them atop the original piece, and used small, sharp wooden skewers to hold the yam together as a whole. Scraping away the ash at the base of the fire pit, S’en uncovered a flat stone that, when moved aside, revealed a hole dug into the dirt. In this she placed the yams where they would sit for the next half-hour before replacing the stone and slowly edging the fire over to cover it entirely. 

When Reven returned, S’en was sitting, stripped down to near-nothing, cross-legged on her bedroll as she sopped water from a bowl with a rag to wash the day’s dust from her skin. She looked up as he approached. He seemed in a pleasant mood today. There was a kind smile on his lips, and he took the wet rag from her hand to sit behind her and help wash her back. She sighed and relaxed. 

“How did it go today?” he asked.

“The man I tracked was a Redguard carpet merchant with some shady under-the-table dealings,” she replied.

“In?”

“Something mundane. Spices I think. Nothing illegal but he is certainly evading reporting his sales and paying the import tax. However much he’s skimping, it’s enough to make him nervous.”

Reven hummed, reaching over her shoulder to dip the rag in the water and wring it of the dirt before returning to his task. S’en didn’t protest or seek to take the rag back from him as he moved to her arms, comfortable with his touch. Sometimes she forgot the time it had taken to trust him with this much, grateful that she could. 

“And you weren’t noticed?” he asked.

“No. There were a few times I thought he may have, but apparently that was just his natural suspicion acting up.”

“Not good enough.” S’en tensed at his comment, but he continued: “Not yet, in the very least. You’ve learned quickly, however, more quickly than I should hope to ask for.” 

The tension left her body as he finished with her other arm and squeezed her shoulders briefly before returning the rag to the water bowl and standing. She gathered her kurta and yanked it over her head, not bothering to cinch it around the waist with the plain sash she normally wore during the day. Pushing her hair from her face, she twisted a dark lock between her fingers and idly thought that she’d need to cut it again soon. Anything beyond shoulder-length and it just became a hinderance. 

“There’s ash yams beneath there,” she said once she noticed Reven absently prodding at the smoldering remains of the fire with the stick. “They should be done by now.” 

Reven brushed aside the charcoal and ash with the stick before shoving it beneath the lip of the stone to leverage it aside. He used his hand to help it along, quickly pulling away with a curse as the hot stone inevitably burnt against his fingers. Fetching a cloth, he folded it thick and used it to pull the cooked yams out without further burning his hand.

They took their meal on the floor, sitting across from one another on the padding of their bedrolls. There was a table, but it felt too… formal, almost. Something they weren’t used to. 

S’en accepted the chopsticks Reven handed to her, poking at her egg to test how well it was cooked before digging it from the mould of the yam and popping the whole thing in her mouth. It scorched her mouth as she bit into it, and for a moment she struggled between spitting it out or swallowing it whole before choosing the latter. The egg left a path of hot discomfort as it made its way down her throat, but at least it wasn’t wasted. 

Across from her, Reven lifted a brow before chuckling softly at her plight. He himself had split each egg in two with his chopsticks and was letting the yolks cool before attempting to eat them.

“You burned your hand just a moment ago,” she reminded him, embarrassed.

“I did, didn’t I?” He gave her a wry smile before busying himself with picking at his kwama egg.

S’en worried her lip between her teeth as she stared down at the steam wafting from her own yam. Perhaps it was the burning of her tongue that finally released the question that had been trapped there for so long. S’en surprised herself just as much as she surprised Reven when the words left her lips:

“How is it you turn people to ash?” 

Reven’s chopsticks stilled from where they had been lifting a piece of egg to his mouth, his lips parted and his eyes looking up at her from his hunched position in surprise. He stayed like that for a moment before returning to eating. 

It lasted for long enough that S’en began to worry that he wouldn’t respond at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d chosen to do so, leaving her in a position of uncertainly waiting before being forced to give up the matter entirely, as though a question had never been asked. But after he’d finished off the first of the two eggs, he jabbed his chopsticks into the flesh of the yam and placed the root down before him. Elbows resting on his knees, he tangled his fingers together and regarded S’en with a heavy stare.

After a moment, S’en likewise placed her yam down, feeling as though it would be awkward if she continued eating. 

“If you want to know what it is, I’ll give you the short answer: I don’t know,” he said finally. 

The frown pulled at her lips before she could hide it. “You _don’t know_?”

“That’s what I said.” Plucking one of the chopsticks out, he idly stabbed it into the yam, poking haphazard holes without method. “I wasn’t young when I first learned of this ability, nor was I old. In those days, I was still a member of the Morag Tong, and in my eagerness to prove my worth I didn’t hesitate to share what I discovered with the guild master. But rather than the praise I expected, I found myself ridiculed, admonished, and cast out of the guild. I know now it is because he feared what I was capable of. But then it felt like the worst of betrayals.”

“So you… were suddenly able to do it? It was that simple?”

“No. It started with small things. I began to notice a sort of… energy, or warmth, emanating from every living being, like the vibrations of a distant drum you can barely hear but can still feel. With time I found that I could reach out and ‘touch’ it, and with practice, found I could take it for myself.” He reached out his hand towards S’en, as though touching something invisible just inches from her skin. A cold sweat broke out over her skin as she was struck with a sudden fear, but the feeling passed as Reven dropped his hand back into his lap. “The ash is just the result of that.” 

“Life-stealing…” S’en looked at her own hands, at the rough calluses and short-bitten nails. Stealing someone else’s life, reducing them to ash. She wondered what it felt like. 

She wondered if she could do the same.

They finished their meal in silence, Reven apparently content to not talk and S’en lost in her own thoughts. The evening passed without incident, but as the last embers of the fire burned low and forfeited the room to the shadows of a moonless night, S’en found herself still laying awake, staring blindly at the ceiling she knew hid behind the pitch black. Curious; her mind heavy with questions and potentials and the taste of a power that could ensure that she could never be under the control of another ever again.

In the darkness, she stretched her arm out, fingers splayed wide as she regarded the murky, uncertain shape of her hand. 

_You would become free_ , Reven’s voice spoke in her mind, a fragment from a memory. 

But had she become free. Or was this – indebted not by her mother’s legacy, but to the death of others, to the kindness of another – simply a more pleasurable servitude? 

Rolling onto her stomach, she propped herself up on one elbow and with the other hand shook Reven’s shoulder. He grunted in response.

“Reven.” Her voice was a harsh whisper, raspy from fatigue. “Reven, wake up.”

“What is it S’en?” Reven barely kept the annoyance from his voice as he rolled over and, presumably, looked at her.

“I want you to teach me your life-stealing.” 

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of shifting fabric. S’en felt Reven take her hand from his shoulder and hold it in both of his own. When he spoke, his voice was low, heavy and somber.

“Are you sure about this, S’en? I can not explain exactly what it will do, but you must know that this is not something you will ever be able to unlearn or to leave behind. It will change everything.” 

The tone in his voice gave her pause. She bit her lip and considered.

_There’s always a price to pay, my dear_ , the memory of Reven whispered, a low-toned seduction.

“I’m sure,” she said.


	7. The Rootspire, Blacklight, 3E 405

Beneath the weight of his robes of office, Drelethyn was acutely distracted by a single bead of sweat that slowly trailed down his spine. The room was insufferably hot, the air stale with old incense and the smell of too many bodies in a small, closed space. The Councilors of House Redoran sat in a semi-circle in the grand Council chamber, fully-robed and armored as tradition would dictate. Drelethyn resisted the urge to pull away the silk around his throat and scratch beneath the lip of the masked ceremonial master’s helm by lacing his fingers together, resting his hands on the table before him. The picture of poised leadership, someone who was definitely responsibly listening to what was being discussed in the Council meeting he currently sat in and not thinking about how damned hot it was. 

At least the helm concealed his face. He was certain his boredom and discomfort would be plain on his features. 

The proceedings of the Council recaptured his attention as the conversation turned away from the ash-hopper swarms that were feasting upon the farms in the southern ashlands near Belemis. The damned pests seemed to be impossible to fend off, with nothing left to eat them since the Lorkhan Scarab was hunted to extinction –  in favor of talk of expansion upon Vvardenfell. House Redoran had long since established settlements and cities upon the island, but there was rumor that the Tribunal was considering letting the damned Cyrod Empire build colonies and forts, making the issue of land claims far more prevalent than it had been in the passing years.

“With Ald’ruhn growing as rapidly as it is, I would suggest that we establish the presence of a Councilor there to manage matters in the city, alongside the barracks—” Councilor Morvayn was saying, only to be interrupted by Bolvyn speaking over him.

“Well met, Morvayn, but I can offer something better; I propose that Ald’ruhn be established as the seat of the Council, with under-Skar serving as its heart. Think on it, if you will; the strong and noble Redoran Council housed in a beast slain by our very ancestors, a symbol of our shared warrior clan. It would give members of the other, lesser Houses reason to think twice before they seek to slander our name.”

The Council chamber filled with the sound of muttering and low conversation as the Councilors turned to one another and debated Bolvyn’s proposition. Drelethyn did not need to debate it. He could already see how arrogant, ill-planned Bolvyn’s grand words were.

“You do realize we are dealing with a blight do you not?” Drelethyn interjected, the Councilors falling quiet around him. “That the disease that plagues our people finds source in Red Mountain, the very mountain Ald’ruhn lies just beside? In encouraging our citizens to move there, never mind our entire _Council_ , we would be putting their and our own lives at risk.”

“Our citizens are already leaving Baan Malur in favor of Ald’ruhn regardless of your desires, cousin. It is a place they can afford to live comfortably,” Bolvyn said, his tone snide.

“Then we will have to develop more affordable housing here in Baan Malur.”

“Hmm… now that would be easier had you not proposed the burning of the district that held most of this housing, would it not?” 

More murmurs arose from the other Council members, with Athyn casting Drelethyn a concerned look. Drelethyn resisted the urge to curse beneath his breath. Bolvyn had backed him into a corner, and from the subtle smirk his cousin wore, he damn well knew it.

“With all due respect Archmaster — ” Bolvyn continued, “ — we know well that the Councilor you formerly served, Dreleth Hleran – _ALMSIVI_ preserve him – had great concern for the treatment of Skar and the development of Ald’ruhn. He holds the respect of everyone in this room for his ancestors’ slaying of Skar. But Hleran was not his ancestors, as he so proved by his insistence that those lands which so rightfully belonged to House Redoran were to be left to the primitive Ashlanders. For your own sake, do not let your mentor’s misguidances become your own.”  

With every bone in his body, Drelethyn willed for Bolvyn to feel the scathing glare he was giving him at the moment. When he spoke, however, his voice belied none of the rage that heated him to his very core. 

“Your argument is well formed, Councilor, and will be considered. This is a matter that we must think on thoroughly before making any decision. We will discuss it further when the Council next convenes.” 

There was a moment of thick tension, where Bolvyn merely stood and held gaze with Drelethyn, a silent challenge to his authority. Only after the silence was held long enough for his defiance to become blatant did he yield, offering Drelethyn a shallow _khena_ , just short of disrespectful. 

“As you will it, _muthsera_ ,” Bolvyn muttered.

The Council then dispersed; though not formally annulled, the weight of Bolvyn’s proposition, the subtle air of hostility that now permeated the room, and the unbearable heat were enough for the Councilors to come to an unspoken agreement that everything there was to discuss had been discussed.

Which was fine by Drelethyn. His mood had blackened into something infectious, and there was absolutely nothing that he wanted more than to relax into a bath and not think about the fact that his cousin was seeking to undermine him at every given moment. Lifting himself from his chair, he made himself scarce before any of the Councilors may have had the chance to catch him for a concerned aside or to voice whatever private opinions they might harbor. He did not want to hear them. Not now.

 

✥

 

The water was murky with ash salt and spices, filling the air with an aromatic heavy steam that stuck in his lungs, the scent bordering on pungent. Dirt and ash fell from his clothes in a pale cloud as he cast off his robes and placed them in the wickerwheat-wove basket that rested beside the paper screen to be taken to wash by a servant. He untied the rough leather laces at the ankles of his trousers. A subtle scraping sound caused him to pause, stock-still as he carefully listened before looking about the room, peering into the bare corners and the shadows cast by the paper lantern that swayed gently from the ceiling above. Not further sound penetrated the room, no tell-tale breathing or shuffling that signified the unwanted presence of another, servant or assassin alike. Satisfied that he truly was alone, Drelethyn set to shedding his trousers. The coarse fabric bunched over his knee. He kissed his teeth, annoyed, and forcefully shoved at the cloth, peeling the fabric from the sweat-layered skin, the spiced steam-haze air cool in comparison to the layers of expensive fabric that made up the ceremonial robes.

The bath water felt pleasant as the arms of a welcome lover as he lowered himself into its warm embrace. His breath left his chest in a heavy sound, a near groan as his muscles began to ease themselves of their tension. For a moment, he merely reclined, allowing the alchemic waters to soothe the wear of argument and legislative war from his bones. 

Bolvyn was becoming a problem. He had been a thorn in Drelethyn’s side for decades now, but recently his behavior had escalated from his usual underhanded tactics to blithely undermining Drelethyn’s authority, seeking to impair and cripple his standing in the Council. Spreading dissent would do little to remove Drelethyn from his seat of power – Bolvyn would need to fell Drelethyn in a duel for that come to pass – but it could slow the determining and passing of law, placing the Council in an argumentative deadlock unless Drelethyn decided to abuse his ability to veto Council decisions. The thought alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was the figurehead of a merited collection of leaders, not an Emperor like that of the Cyrods.

As he began to scrub the dead skin and dirt away from his skin under the rough caress of a pumice stone, it occurred to him that Bolvyn might not see the position of Archmaster the same as Drelethyn viewed it. Running the pumice stone over his shoulder, he felt acutely aware of the scarab tattoo’d across his back, needled there in pitch ancestral-ash ink, the words _card lornad_ — honor the ancestors — tracing his spine above and below the scarab’s body and splayed legs. The traditional tattoo borne by each Archmaster of House Redoran, though never quite the same as one another. The scarab was of the House; the words were his own.

It was no matter. Bolvyn may have his efforts, but the members of the Council who remained loyal to Drelethyn were of the influential sort. Councilor Miner Arobar was admired and praised for his service in the House War of 3E 243, his leadership admirable enough for Nerevar’s Notch to be carved into his armor, the highest honor one could earn in the military service of the Redoran. Councilor Remas Morvayn was a very intelligent and fair-minded man, second perhaps only to his wife Brara in these regards. And Athyn Sarethi… well, none would claim Drelethyn’s former Second Councilor to be a traditional model of Redoran values and virtues, but there’s a certain respect gained from being a former Morag Tong agent who returned from Hammerfell and bludgeoned his own cousin to death to earn his rightful place on the Council.

Drelethyn stretched his arms above his head, rotating his shoulder before submerging himself underwater entirely. His wetted hair was a dark curtain before his eyes as he emerged once more. He pushed it back, combing his fingers through the tangles when he heard it again.

The scraping. Louder this time.

Drelethyn barely had time to grasp the sword that was buried in where his robes were piled before he whirled and blocked the strike that had been aimed for the back of his neck. The assassin stumbled back, giving Drelethyn just enough time to rise from the water and step out of the sunken basin onto solid ground. Then they were upon him again, blades and the many-eyed goggles of their mask flashing in the red lantern light. 

It was apparent the Morag Tong had grown tired of the unfulfilled writ that had been issued for his death many, many years before, and the string of failed attempts that had occurred as a result of it. This assassin, whoever they might be, was clearly one of skill and experience. Unarmored, unclothed, and caught unawares, Drelethyn lacked the upper hand, and found himself being forced to defend and retreat, unable to change the fight to his advantage. 

Drelethyn’s heel collided with something solid, and with quick glance back he realized he had been driven into a corner of the room. His brief distraction nearly cost him his last breath. The assassin’s blade whistled through the air as they struck for his neck once more. Drelethyn threw himself to the side, his own blade forgotten in favor of falling into an ill-executed roll to escape the bite of the assassin’s bonemold blade. Something in his shoulder cracked, and a searing pain shot from it across his collarbone and down his arm. He stumbled to his feet, gritting his teeth and trying to lay eyes on his attacker through his disorientation. They made their presence known through a cry—though not, Drelethyn realized belatedly, one of victory. He watched as the assassin fell to their knees and slumped over; protruding from their mask, the hilt of two ebony _ghartok_ , embedded in a perfect line between their eyes. 

“They certainly haven’t given up,” came Athyn’s voice from where he stood in the doorway. “Are you alright?

“Well I’m alive thanks to you,” Drelethyn said, reaching up to rub at his shoulder. He winced at his own touch, looking down to see the joint was very clearly dislocated. 

“Would you like me to take care of that?” Athyn asked, crossing the room toward him.

“Sure, it will sa-AUGH!!” Drelethyn hadn’t the time to finish his sentence before Athyn had taken hold of his shoulder and expertly pushed it back into place. The pain was intense and gone in an instant, leaving behind only a lingering ache. “A little warning next time would be nice,” he groused, massaging the joint.

“You would have tensed up,” Athyn responded, unfazed.

Drelethyn quickly retrieved his cast-off trousers and pulled them on for some semblance of modesty as Athyn walked over to the dead assassin and pulled his _ghartok_ from their skull, briefly submerging the ebony knife-money in the still warm bath water to clean them of the clinging blood. 

“I didn’t think you’d be wanting to finish your bath,” he commented, wiping the water from one of the blades on the hem of his own robes before tucking it away into the maw of his robe sleeve. 

“No, I’ve fulfilled my quota of being naked and afraid,” Drelethyn replied dryly, forgoing his usual social poise in favor of something more authentic in the presence of his friend.  Crouching, he pulled the Tong assassin’s mask away. The man beneath was no one Drelethyn recognized, and he shuffled aside to let Athyn take a look. 

“He’s no one I know,” Athyn said. 

“I don’t suppose your connections could do anything about this?” he asked as he found the writ of execution the assassin carried, the wax seal untouched and unbroken. Athyn took the scroll from him and used the throwing knife he still held to cut the seal, scanning the writ for any possible information regarding who had requested it to be carried out.

“No,” Athyn said with a sigh, “unless you feel like attempting to seduce Eno Hlaalu like you did my former Grandmaster.” 

That was enough to break Drelethyn’s foul mood. He let out a bark of laughter at the authentic disdain on Athyn’s features—Athyn had never quite forgiven Drelethyn for the commotion that he’d caused in his years as a Second Councilor. 

“The rigid bastard would never bite. I suppose I will just have to be thankful that you came and saved my sorry arse,” Drelethyn said with a grin, before his expression fell to something more somber. “For their attempts to fulfill this writ to reignite now of all times however… the Morag Tong certainly knows how to make their presence an inconvenience.”

“About that.” Drelethyn glanced over to see Athyn still inspecting the writ, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

“What about it?” Drelethyn asked.

“This is not the same writ as the one originally issued against you. Whoever wants you dead, they are not some enemy from decades past. They want you dead now.” 

The name remained unspoken between the both of them, but there was no doubt in Drelethyn’s mind that they both had a unanimous suspicion of just who that person may be. 


	8. Othrenis, 3E 410

S’en had been absently tidying the safehouse when the door opened with a clatter so sudden that it had her scrambling for the nearest sharp object before she saw that it was Reven limping in. With a gasp and a shuddered curse, he stumbled.

“Reven!” The name fell from her lips breathlessly as she caught him. Quickly, she slung one of his arms over her shoulders, taking the brunt of his weight onto her hip as he leaned against her heavily, his breathing haggard. “What happened? Are you—”

“S’en—” A harsh inhale cut his words, face contorting into a grimace as he once more tried to stand. S’en looked down and gasped as she saw Reven’s leg, twisted and wrongly shaped, the cloth of his pants tight around his knee where it had swelled. He hunched once more, S’en all but holding him up. His brow glistened with a cold sweat, and his eyes were distant and pain-clouded as he looked up at her once more. She cut him off before he could speak.

“Hush. Let me help you before you try to explain.” 

With some difficulty and clenched teeth on Reven’s part, they managed to ease him down into a sitting position, his back propped against the wall, injured leg straightened before him as he drew the knee of the other close to his chest. S’en carefully tucked nearby sacks of saltrice around Reven’s leg, letting him relax from having to keep it still. It did little to ease the tension from his body, stiffened and still in agony. He hissed out a long breath as S’en pulled the leg of his pants from the boot it was tucked into, loosening the laces on the side. Retreiving the knife she had lunged for but a moment ago, she carefully cut the fabric along the seam, loosening it further to let her push it up without having to jostle the suffering limb. The skin surrounding his knee was mottled, a dark bruise ranging from rosen to black vivid against the grey of his flesh. The bone was clearly misaligned; it almost made S’en sick to look at, not for the damage itself but the pain it must cause.

“You need to see a healer,” S’en muttered. No sooner had the words left her lips was Reven trying to free himself from the cradle of burlap sacks S’en had built around his leg.

“I can’t, they’ll—” His words were cut short by his own gasp, his face turning near-white before he crumpled with a low, pained groan, like that of a wounded animal.

“You can hardly move. If this isn’t treated, you will never walk, let alone stand, ever again,” she replied, trying to keep her tone even in spite of the frustration.

“No.”

“You’re being—”

“S’en. There is nothing more I would love right now than to be able to see a healer,” Reven said, his words strained. “But I _can’t_. The only healers in this wretched place are those of the Temple.”

“They will help you,” S’en began. “They help—”

“The man I just killed was a priest.” 

The words died on S’en’s tongue. She bit her lip, worrying the flesh with her teeth. Something had to be done. What should she do? What _could_ she do? 

“I’m going to straighten it,” she said after long moment. She hadn’t ever set a bone before, but she knew in theory how one would do it from the standard medical knowledge that Reven had insisted she learn as part of her training. Standing, she fetched a bottle of _mazte_ , the pottery heavy in her hands as she uncorked it and handed it to Reven. Without hesitation he accepted it and drank heavily straight from the bottle, groaning as the heat of the liquor burned in his belly in his haste. He looked up again as S’en offered him her glove she’d eased from her hand moments before to bite upon. It wouldn’t help the pain, but having something to dig one’s teeth into always made it slightly more tolerable.

She waited until the netch leather was firmly held between his teeth before she laid her hands upon his leg, thumbs placed beneath the joint. Taking a steadying breath, she jerked her hands to the side. The sound that he made as she straightened the bone back into alignment as best she could was one of the worst she’d ever heard, a primal shout of suffering.

It wasn’t until later, after S’en had splinted his leg and applied a balm that would help numb the pain, that Reven broke the silence that had overcome him.

“I landed wrong,” he said, gaze pinned to the ceiling. “Didn’t see a guard around the corner and had to make a run for it. I was too distracted to see the drop until it was too late.”

S’en reached over and brushed the hair from his eyes. He caught her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm before releasing it. She looked at his leg, held tight in the makeshift splint. They said nothing, but both knew it would not heal. Reven would no longer be able to fulfill any form of contract. 

She didn’t let herself think on it, distracting herself with helping Reven lay down on his bedroll, making sure he was comfortable and leaving him to sip at a second bottle of _mazte_ as she prepared food for the both of them. She kept herself busy, storing away Reven’s armor and cleaning his weapons, finishing tidying the small safe house and organizing what little possessions they had. When the night grew dark and the only sound was that of Reven’s sleeping breaths, S’en found herself still restless, her mind finally turning over what she had been avoiding all evening.

S’en had been training to become an assassin for years now. She knew it was only a matter of time before she’d begin to take over contracts for Reven and pull her own weight. In a way, she had looked forward to it, if only to feel as though she were contributing and wasn’t a dead weight Reven carried around. Despite it all, she had very expertly avoided thinking about actually carrying out the act. Of what it would be like to kill another person. The world had never treated S’en well. It was as cruel and uncaring as most of those who lived in it. Out of necessity, S’en had grown a tough skin to protect herself from it best as she could. But in the cover of darkness, where she lay alone with the secret of her own thoughts, S’en wondered if she’d be able to make herself commit murder.

She supposed she would find out soon enough.


	9. Ienethis, 3E 412

The man let out his breath in a wheeze, the air escaping through his lungs; lips frothed pink, spit laced with blood. He slumped forward, the motion pulling him from S'en's blade as his body fell to the floor in an inelegant heap. S’en crouched, wiping her blade on the finely woven cotton of the man’s shirt before digging in the confines of the garment. Her fingers met metal, still warm from his skin. The small key dug into the meat of her palm as she curled her fingers around it and snapped the cord, leaving a delicate pink line across his neck. One eye stared up at her, wide and dark and unseeing. She gave his cheek an affectionate pat.

“Good man,” she said, the words sneered between sharp teeth. 

Standing, she looked about the room, at the delicately carved furnishings of ivory and imported woods, tapestries that boasted of ancestral feats of honor, bookshelves stuffed bursting with words she could not read. The air was perfumed heavily with the spice and incense that she had grown to associate with wealth. White smoke drifted lazily from a censer that hung in the corner, the fumes doing well to hide the metallic rust of blood. Things that the hetman of a wealthy port city could possess. Ienethis, Reven told her, was one of the many cities that benefited from the questionable trading practices of the lesser House Llevaros; which only helped to fatten the pockets of the man in charge of collecting on their taxes. 

S’en crossed the room to where there stood a desk, the surface littered with stacked papers and books; organized, perhaps, to its owner but certainly not to S’en. Candles sat along the top shelf of the desk’s cubby, flickering warmly. Pressed between folded pages lie a pressed sweetbrier flower; a love letter, then, or some other offering of affection. It was not unlikely. The man who lay dead on the floor was neither old, married, nor bad-looking. But he was most certainly dead, and his former affairs no longer of any concern.

The center drawer on the desk was locked, but opened with a soft click as S’en inserted and turned the key.

It was just as Reven said there would be; tucked in the drawer, a large book, its frequent use belied through yellowed pages and worn binding. S’en lifted the tome delicately. The heft was formidable in her hands, the spine cracking in her palm as she opened it. The pages held rows and columns; numbers, mostly, but words as well, though what they said she couldn’t tell. She slipped the book into the leather bindings she wore for this purpose, fastening it tight to her back before she quickly made herself scarce from the scene.

The streets of Ienethis were bustling as S’en slipped from the back gate of the manor’s outer gardens and into the congestion and commerce of the bazaar. The air was thick with dust and ash kicked up from the streets. She kept her head low, hood drawn up as she wove her way through the fray. Around her, merchants peddled their goods from within the bellies of their tarp and tapestry stalls. Delicate perfumes, oils for anointing and incense for prayer. Holy pomegranates from the Temple gardens, illicit, stolen and sold on the streets, peddlers either greedy or desperate enough to not care that the price for such a crime would cost them their hands. Blight-moth silk and soft Selforan cotton textiles. Trinkets crafted from dull metal, lauded at a raised price for the traces of ebony they held, traces filched from the scraps left in the forges of skilled smiths. Hollowed bone windchimes sang from where they hung, strung along merchant stalls to draw the attention of passerbys. Tucked in the corners of the bazaar, obvious to only those who knew how to look for them, lay the dens that offered skooma, _khefer_ , and things even more illicit. 

Years ago, S’en would have been among those den-dwellers, limbs loosened and mind addled, bound by craving and necessity. Now, she felt a rush as she was able to walk by them without hesitation, bound to a task far more important and having long since purged those poisons from her body.

Reven was to thank for that. Reven was to thank for so many things.

Her steps carried her past where a cluster of pilgrims huddled before the rough-hewn Temple iconography of a street shrine, their prayers mumbled and lost beneath the market criers.  A loud shout rose above the din. S’en’s steps slowed as she lifted her head to peer through the dust. There was a commotion ahead, the sea of bodies being forcefully parted to make way. Three Redoran guards broke through the crowd, donned in full bonemold armor, their heavy footsteps quick as they approached. She felt her chest grow tight for a moment, her heart beginning to race as she watched them draw near, waiting for one to look at her and somehow know she was responsible. She became suddenly aware of the weight of the book hidden beneath the folds of her cloak, a damnation pressed to her spine. 

A voice rose from behind her, quietly at first before growing louder. S’en turned to see a woman curled up against the wall. Her knobby-knuckled fingers curled over her knees as she rocked back and forth, swaying. She was singing, S’en realized. Little more than a bundle of rags and cloth, frayed and dirtied, but beautiful in sound. The woman’s face was covered by a large hood, only her dry lips could be seen moving as she sang. Her voice cracked and warbled above the marketplace, haunting as it lilted with her heavy, coarse accent.

 

_“Dig a deep hole into the soil,_

_There plant my bones, leave not one,_

_Dirt for all the sweat and toil,_

_The wicked ways we have come undone._

_And with it may my sins be sundered_

_My skull a womb for something more.”_

 

The woman lifted her head, catching S’en’s gaze with clever, knowing eyes. Her lips moved into a small smile, offering crooked yellow teeth, slick with hack-lo oil, blackened at the root and loose in her gums. Scars pocked her face, weaving an intricate path across her ashen skin. _Velothi_ ; an outcast Ashlander. S’en stood, caught between the strange pull of the singing hag’s words and her guilted panic and need to flee from the oncoming guardsmen.

 

_“Dig a deep hole into the soil,_

_Scrape from it the heart, the blood,_

_Our father whom we don’t remember,_

_Our father whom we have become._

_And with it may your sins be sundered,_

_Your ribs a cradle for the fervor.”_

 

Then, the guards passed, without so much a glance at the market-goers they forced from their path, S’en among them. Responding to the discovery of the recently-assassinated, no doubt. After all, it is not everyday that the hetman of Ienethis was found dead in his private chambers. 

S’en let out her breath slowly, softly hissing between her lips as the bazaar began to move once more around her. Counted to five, then five again, before she turned on her heel and continued walking. If her pace was slightly quicker than it was moments ago, there was no one to take notice.

It had been several years since her first kill, when Reven’s knee became injured beyond repair and she changed from apprentice to breadwinner. She should long be over these fears, but she never seemed to be able to shake the anxiety despite her pride in being able to begin repaying Reven for his years of kindness.

She followed the flow of the crowd, letting the sea of bodies guide her, before taking a quick turn to the right and pushing her way into an alley, digging her elbows into ribs and trodding on feet to get through. A Dunmer woman shouted at her as she jostled her way past and knocked the basket of fruits that the woman had been carrying atop her head, the flesh bruised and crushed to a sweet pulp in the dirt of the street as they fell beneath soles and bare feet alike. S’en swiped one from the dirt as she passed, dusting it off with the cloth of her shirt and biting into the tender flesh.

S’en quickly descended the short steps leading from the main street. She paused to give the rest of her pilfered fruit to a beggar wrapped in tattered rags who certainly needed it more than she before continuing on her way. The alley fed into another, and that into yet another, a labyrinth of back passages and hidden corners that stretched between the walls and ancestor-anointed clay homes. She took another turn, ducking into a passage so narrow that her shoulders brushed the walls on either side. It ended in a low stone wall that she scaled with ease, dropping down into the courtyard on the other side; walled in, hidden from the prying eyes of the city and the Redoran Guard alike. Across, laid into the wall was a single door tucked beneath a netch leather awning, the wood featureless. A red-bellied lantern hung from the awning rafters, swaying gently in the late evening wind.

S’en crossed the courtyard, dry knuckles rapping on the door four times in short succession before she took a step back. There was the groan of a latch coming undone. The door opened with some difficulty, the wood cut slightly too large to properly fit in the frame without forcing it. She helped it along with a short kick to the base, and found herself met with the tired face of Reven. His cracked lips parted in a smile that she returned, and he stood aside to let her into the dim room beyond.

S’en felt the tension ease from her body as the door shut behind her, Reven jamming it into the frame with his hip and relatching the locks. He turned to her expectantly. 

With deft fingers she untied the leather ties keeping the sling strapped to her back. Pulling the book from the rucksack, she held the heavy tome out to him.

“It was what was in the desk,” she said, as he took it from her and began to flip through the pages. She chewed on her lip. It had been the first time that a contract she’d fulfilled had wanted something stolen in addition to someone dead; apparently assassinating the hetman wasn’t enough for their client. No, they intended to slander the dead man’s name with proof of his fraudulent reporting of Ienethis’s taxes to House Redoran. S’en shifted her weight from one leg to another as Reven flipped another page. “It is the right book, yes?”

For a long moment, Reven didn’t answer her, or even look at her. S’en’s incisor dug into the meat of her lip, drawing a bead of blood that she quickly licked away. She could feel the panic beginning to rise in her chest, her pulse quickening as she waited for Reven to tell her that it was wrong, to tell her that she’s botched the job, to tell her that she—

He flipped the page again, then closed the book.

“Yes,” he said finally. “You did well, S’en. Our contractor should be pleased.”

She let out her breath as quietly as she could.

Reven smiled again before limping over to the safe that sat nestled in the corner, tucked innocuously behind the crates clustered there. His knee had never healed properly from that fall he’d taken years ago, swollen and agitated and misaligned. It was better on some days. She could tell from the set of his mouth today was not one of those days.

S’en looked away and busied herself, stripping herself of her leathers down to the light clothing she wore beneath the armor. 

The safehouse was small, little more than a room, really. During the evenings the floor was taken up by the span of their bedrolls; for now they were stored away, tucked atop a crate until needed. A cooking fire crackled in a modest firebed, and aside from the ratted tapestry that took up one wall and a small table of worn, splintering wood and a matching stool, the room held nothing else. 

S’en did not mind the close quarters, nor the lack of privacy. She was used to it. Besides, their stay in Ienthis would come to an end tomorrow, when they would abandon this place for another city and another death-marked contract.

“S’en.”

She turned, armor bundled in her arms, just as Reven tossed an ash yam in her direction. S’en had to scramble to catch it, the yam nearly tumbling onto the floor before her fingers gripped it tightly. 

“Now?” she groused.

Reven nodded, settling onto a stool. She placed aside her leathers. Cradling the ash yam in both hands, she let out her breath and drew her attention inward, to the heat settled between her ribs. It grew beneath her focus, her heartbeat quickening and her fingers tingling with energy as it latched onto the ash yam and _pulled._

The yam shriveled in her hands as the life was drained from it, blackening before it crumbled to dust. Reven’s gaze was focused intently on the remains in her hands, mouth hidden by the hand he held to it, his brows furrowed. 

“Again,” he said, gesturing to the basket of ash yams sitting in the corner, tucked beside sacks and crates that held various dried foodstuffs. S’en made to fetch another ash yam only to be stopped by Reven’s outstretched hand. “From afar, this time.”

S’en’s uncertainty must have shown on her face, as he gave her a nod of encouragement. She lifted her hands once more, her eyes falling shut.

Reven suspected it was a lost form of magic, this… ability he had, that he’d passed down to S’en. Unsanctioned by the Temple, unknown by the most skilled of mages; or so Reven told her. S’en’s only experience with magecraft of any school had been the raw, unfettered flames that the Dunmer called so easily to light their fists and knives with when a street fight broke out in front of the whorehouse. 

Her mouth screwed to the side as she focused, hands outstretched, fingers spread wide as she sought out the life force from the ash yam. In the darkness, she could feel Reven’s own energy burn warmly, a distraction from what she was supposed to be drawing from. He didn’t move away, despite being well aware that she could accidentally reap his life force by accident in favor of the weaker source she was instructed to tap from. A test of control.

S’en drew her attention away from Reven, seeking out the weaker pulse. She was careful as she latched onto it. Opening her eyes, she watched as the life began to drain from the ash yams, a rose-embered energy flowing from the basket in which they sat to coil and lick at S’en’s fingertips before sinking into the skin. The yams began to shrivel and shrink, growing withered under her efforts. Sweat beaded and dripped down her forehead from the exertion. Just as the last traces of life were pulled from the yams and they fell to dust, something snapped, and she lost control. She could feel herself latch on and begin to draw from to the closest source of life — Reven — before she could stop it. He flinched, doubling over, and she immediately dropped her hands and backed away, forcing the connection to break. 

“ _Blight_ , are you alright?” She was already crossing the room, kneeling by his side. He groaned and shrugged off her worried touch. S’en cursed herself under her breath. “I’m so sorry Reven I…”

“I’m fine, just give me a moment.”

Her teeth clacked together painfully with how quickly she shut her mouth. Shuffling back a few paces, she gave Reven some space, her hands tucked behind her, knees pressed to her stomach, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles turned bone white beneath her tawny skin.

Reven lifted his head from his hands and looked down to where S’en crouched. His expression was certainly not angry, but she couldn’t tell what it was exactly, his eyes dark beneath the furrow of his brow. Unsteadily he stood, hobbling over to the basket. He made to lift a yam from the basket, only for it to crumble to dust in his palm, sifting through his fingers and falling into nothingness. 

“Incredible,” he muttered, so quietly that S’en wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “S’en, tell me, how long has it been since you began practicing?”

She thought hard about the question. “Since we were in Oymani.”

“Five months, then.” Reven looked down once more at the basket, shaking his head. “Incredible,” he repeated.

“What is?”

“You’ve mastered this in a far shorter amount of time than I ever did. Soon enough you’ll be able to absorb another’s life without a moment’s thought.”

S’en remembered the bloodbath at the House of Negotiable Affections; Iszari’s weeping chest-wound, the horrified, curdling scream of the guard as his body shriveled, the sound still echoing along the walls as his lungs turned to dust. In the confines of her private thoughts, S’en wondered, vaguely, if those horrors was something she wanted to be capable of; if she wasn’t wrong to ask Reven to teach her this strange art. 

He spoke of it as a gift. She wasn’t so sure. But it put a fire in her bones and a tingling in her fingers that only _khefer_ had given her otherwise. It was addicting, and S’en wondered, as she dumped the basket of now-dust out into the courtyard later that evening, if it was already too late to turn back.

She itched.

 

✥

 

The nights in Ienethis were cold, the fog from the Inner Sea rolling in to cool the city to the bone. On nights like this, the edges of their bedrolls overlapped as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms. S’en could taste Reven’s breath sweet on her tongue as she breathed in his air, her forehead pressed to his. He shifted to press his lips to her brow as he gently stroked his fingers through the dark, short strands of her hair. She marveled at times at how the same calloused hands that made coin by murder could be capable of such gentleness, though it seemed to be only reserved for her. S’en had feared his touch, at first. Not without reason, and he had never sought to force her to become comfortable with it. The intimacy they shared was one that she had initiated, long after she had been lulled by the comfort of his words and the steadiness of his promises. Even so, it was years before the line between it being something she felt obligated towards and it being something she wanted for herself sharpened and she was able to tell which was which. There were times it grew vague again. 

“Something is on your mind,” Reven commented. She offered him a noncommittal hum as reward for his observation. He shifted, putting enough space between them to look at her properly in the low light of the safehouse. S’en scowled slightly at the loss of heat. “Is it something you want to talk about?”

S’en raised a hand to his face, dragging a coarse thumb across the proud jaunt of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the swell of his full lips. His gaze remained on her face; piercing, but patient as she mapped out his features with her hands. He was, perhaps, a bit plain, but there was something wicked lying there, a charisma granted to him by his capability and the dangerous life he led. It was in the shadows around his eyes, the deep furrow in his brow. Seductive as a secret. Curling her fingers around the back of his neck, she tugged him forward once more and caught his lower lip between her teeth, sharp ivory digging into the flesh and threatening to draw blood before she released it to tender and bruise. The sigh that escaped his mouth was a permission. The soft kisses and warm hands on her skin did little to ease her hunger, but Reven seemed uninterested in anything further for this night at least, and S’en’s impatience yielded, settling to stir between her ribs as she relaxed beneath his touch.

“S’en?” 

For a moment, she considered voicing the doubts that had begun to grow. But there was a part of her that was unwilling to give up the semblance of stability that she had only recently allowed herself to rely upon; it was stronger than her dissatisfaction, so she swallowed the words and shook her head.

“It’s nothing,” she said. Reven’s doubt was clear, but he seemed satisfied to let S’en pull him to her again, tucking herself beneath his chin and willing the warmth of his body to lull the unease from her mind. 


	10. Ienethis, 3E 412

On the night they were to leave Ienethis, Reven was distant and fretful. Tension was thick as they packed up the safe house; possessions strapped to their persons, barrels messily but carefully upended to fake disuse, the wood ceiling prodded with a stick to bring the dust wafting down from between the slats and covering evidence of their stay, the remains of the cooking fire scattered or buried in the closed courtyard. Any attempt S’en made to ask Reven what was wrong was met with a snapped order to keep working, so she gave up and held her tongue. Reven’s moods were a fickle thing that needed to be handled carefully; like a sweetbrier flower, one mistake would cause him to dig his thorns into whatever tenderness he could find. He rarely turned his cruelty on her, reserving it for those who he considered unworthy of his sympathy, but she was not immune by any means. For most of the passing days, S’en found comfort in Reven, in the presence of another constant presence in her life. But there were times where she quietly mused that were he not her savior, mentor, lover, her _freedom_ , she might just detest his very bones for how his cruelty could be so thoughtless. 

The streets of Ienethis were eerily still with the early hour, the bazaar abandoned and shadowed corners quietly threatening as the thick fog of the rising sun smothered all. They made their way quickly, hoods pulled down to mask their faces as they wove through the city streets. 

Reven turned down an alley, leaving behind the parts of the city that S’en recognized and delving into the underbelly. He walked quickly, seemingly heedless of his limp in his urgency but still clearly favoring one leg over the other. The clay walls rose high on either side, criss-crossed above by bannisters and fluttering tapestries. Any windows they passed were dark; only the unfortunate or ill-intended roamed the streets at these odd hours. S’en wondered which of those two they were. Unconsciously, her hand fell to the dagger at her hip, fingers curling around the crude chitin pommel. 

They turned another corner, and before them, around a bend S’en could not see, there lay the tell-tale flicker of candlelight. S’en faltered, her heart threatening to race at the potential of a fight. But Reven continued on without hesitation, and S’en picked up her pace, jogging to catch up to him. They drew close to the candlelight, and S’en saw that it was not another alleyway, nor was the source of light another living person. Nestled in the niche of the building there was built a beggar’s shrine; poorly constructed as they all were, but carefully tended. Dozens of greyed candles encircled the shrine, remolded from the cast-off drippings of the scented waxes of the Temple proper. Offerings were scarce; shriveled petals of the fire fern, batam bones where the meat could not be spared by the pilgrim’s hand for how little they had to survive upon. A bottle of cheap alcohol, the wax seal intact but unlikely to stay that way. In the midst offerings and candlelight stood the shrine itself, little more than a sheet of dried guar skin tanned and stretched taut over a frame and left to lean against the alley wall. Painted there in a novice-handed rendition of Temple iconography was the image of Saint Veloth the Pilgrim, the patron of outcasts. S’en watched in a surprised silence as Reven approached the shrine and fell to his knees, head bowed and hands lifted in prayer. She could not understand the words he spoke, the same old, old language of the Temple priests that she had only heard in the few occasions that the priests had come out to aid and anoint the wealthless and sick.

From the eleven years she had spent at his side, S’en knew Reven to not be a religious man; nor was she a religious woman, having long since grown to doubt that either the Saints or the Tribunal, even if they could hear, would care enough for those who could not decorate their shrines in wealth and decadence. Whereas more pious Dunmer maintained the Waiting Door of their ancestors in their homes and visited the Temple on all holy days, Reven had never made time for such things. If he was praying now, then something was very, very wrong. 

The hairs on the back of S’en’s neck rose, and she cast an anxious look down both ends of the silent alleyway, suddenly uncomfortable with so clearly being visible to any distant onlooker standing on the fringes of the candlelight as she was. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she resisted her sudden, instinctual urge to flee and kept quiet sentry as she watched Reven continue his prayer. 

His words fell silent after a few muttered verses, and S’en looked on as with shaking hands Reven lifted something from around his neck. A talisman, but one S’en had never seen before; it was simple in design, and would not be much to look at if it weren’t for the large, red stone that lay nestled in the center. The candlelight caught on the smooth surface, seeming to ignite a fire in the center. For a moment, S’en was struck with the thought that it almost seemed alive _._

Without thought, she stepped forward, as though drawn forward. 

Reven lay the talisman before the shrine in offering, speaking a final word she could not understand. As he stood, she leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed as she feigned boredom. His expression belied nothing as he turned to look… not at her, but into the alley beyond. His eyes were distant, and he barely regarded her as he passed and continued on his way. 

S’en made to follow, but only managed a step before she felt as though something held her back, as though there were an invisible hand around her wrist or upon her shoulder, trying to keep her there. Turning, her gaze immediately fell on the talisman that lay before the beggar’s shrine. The deep red of the stone shone, almost blazing, in the firelight. Pulsing.

_Alive._

Fear swept through her, near-sundering in its intensity. Without thought, she fled from the alley, sprinting toward Reven’s retreating form in the fog. 

Reven seemed surprised, almost, as she caught up with him. She saw the tell-tale flinch of his hand beginning to draw his blade. But recognition flashed in his eyes at the last second before he could do away with her unthinkingly. He blinked, swore softly under his breath, and lifted a hand to drag down his face, wiping away the sweat there. One deep breath, then two, then he was turning away once more, motioning for her to follow him. She was unsure whether to be more hurt or concerned about him seeming to momentarily forget about her entirely.

He led her deeper into Ienethis, down the slope that the town was built upon. They wove through alleys and down street stairs, past the silent cornerclub and toward the distant docks and the dead waters of the Inner Sea. The air grew colder the closer they came to the docks, and S’en found herself clutching the burlap of her travel cloak tightly around her frame, biting her lip to keep her teeth from audibly clicking with every shiver.

S’en was stopped unexpectedly by Reven’s arm. He tucked her behind him as he looked around a corner, searching. S’en peeked out from behind, and saw in the distance the shape of someone walking slowly along the docks, holding a lantern. Not a guard – the shape was too thin for that, lacking the proud jut of Gah-Julan pauldrons and bulk of bonemold armor. Reven turned to her, hands falling to her shoulders as he kneeled slightly to bring his gaze level to hers.

“I need you to stay here and do not move, _yi shoksuna_. I’ll return to you shortly.” Before S’en could protest or voice the growing unease she had been suffering, he pressed his dry lips to her forehead once and was gone, striding confidently toward the waiting stranger. S’en crouched, hiding herself in the shadows as she watched Reven’s form fade into silhouette in the dense fog.

She watched Reven carefully as he spoke to whomever stood before him, searching for any warning signs. Reven handed something to the stranger – a small parcel that was  opened and examined closely. Coin then. The stranger seemed to argue, waving his fist angrily in Reven’s face. Reven caught the hand and leaned close, and whatever he said was quick to pacify the stranger into compliance. S’en knew all too well how the timber of Reven’s voice could dip dangerously low in threat, the words delivered honey-sweet with promise of how he _would_ gut whomever the unfortunate soul was and leave their entrails scattered about their home for their loved ones to find. He was a dangerous man. Never to her, but it was something akin to handling a familiar, well-worn knife. It wouldn’t kill the wielder, but certainly could anyone else who came too near. 

The stranger gestured for Reven to follow him, and for a moment S’en believed that she was to be left behind. But Reven caught the stranger’s arm, and gestured for him to wait, before jogging over to where S’en hid.

“Come now, we must be quick,” he said, gently gripping S’en’s forearm to lift her to her feet and lead her to where the stranger waited. 

As they drew close, S’en could see who Reven had been talking to. He was a yellow-toothed Dunmer, whose ashen skin was pocked with patterned scarring and whose pointed ears pierced with bone. Another _Velothi_ , one of the outcast Ashlanders who made home in House society but was never quite welcome in it. He scowled at S’en, lips curled in a sneer, then spoke in a heavily accented voice.

“This was not part of the deal.”

“The deal has changed,” Reven said, wrapping an arm around S’en’s shoulders and drawing her close to his side. “Your master grants us travel across the Inner Sea to Vvardenfell, and you get paid. Or, you don’t, and I’ll find someone else to take the rest of this payment off of my hands.”

_Vvardenfell?_

S’en looked up at Reven, confusion etched clearly into her features. There were countless questions on the tip of her tongue, but she held it, knowing well that this was not the time to ask.

The Velothi gave her a sour look that she returned in full, before he turned and gestured them to follow with a brusque wave of his hand. The rafters creaked and moaned quietly as they walked across them, travelling nearly the span of the city’s dockside before they came to a halt before a ramshackle hovel that seemed to be held together with little more than chipped mortar and a prayer.

It was small, clearly set up to look like some sort of merchant’s storage as a front to their real business as smugglers. The items that were set out as merchandise were convincing at first glance; crates stacked and lashed together, labeled as spice and textile imports from Vvardenfell and distant lands outside Morrowind; tall urns with wax-sealed lids, rolls of fabric that seemed extravagant but upon closer look were visibly worn. Nothing that would seem suspicious to the untrained eye, but it fell into the pattern that smugglers tended to fall back upon, and S’en questioned the reliability of this specific… company that Reven had selected to use for travel.

Their guide led them through the crowded room, to the back wall, where he shoved aside tall spools of fabric to reveal a doorway. Behind it was a small room, outfitted with a stool, a thin window cut from the plaster, and little else besides. Clearly this is not what Reven had paid for; his hand shot out, gripping around the man’s thin forearm tight enough that S’en could see his knuckles whiten beneath his ashen skin.

“I was _told_ that we would be leaving tonight,” Reven snarled. “What is this?”

“There’s an ash storm crossing the Inner Sea,” the man shot back, trying to yank his arm from Reven’s unrelenting grip. “Your trip will begin when it passes.”

Reven’s lip curled, his eyes flashing dangerously. “That was not part of the deal.”

“As you said, the deal has changed.” S’en watched as the _Velothi_ man gave a smug smile. She could tell that Reven wanted to do little more than break the man’s yellow, ugly teeth with his fist, but he let him go instead. The man stepped back rubbing his arm where Reven had held it hard enough to bruise the flesh. “For tonight, you both will stay here. You would do well to keep hidden. Remember, you are the wanted man for whom we are doing a favor, payment aside.”

With no further words, the _Velothi_ slammed the door shut, cutting off the lantern-light and leaving S’en and Reven standing in the small room. The light of the moons shone weakly through the paneless window, washing everything in a faint, silvery glow. S’en waited as Reven dropped his travel pack from his shoulder, letting it fall on the dirt floor as he sat heavily on the stool, before she spoke.

“What in Aralor’s name are you doing?” she demanded. “You rouse me in the middle of the night and tell me little other than we have to leave Ienethis, and the next thing I know we’re to travel to Vvardenfell? _Smuggled,_ no less? Unless you very clearly tell me what is going on, I’m not going to follow you for another step.”

Reven looked up at her, clearly irritated at first, but it quickly fell into resignation when she did not back down, her gaze boring into his. 

“ _Yi shoksuna…_ ” he began, but was quickly cut off.

“Do not call me that,” she snapped. “Answer my _fetching_ question, Reven. Now.”

“I received warning that I’ve become compromised. The Morag Tong has a writ of execution with my name on it, for the crime of unsanctioned assassination.”

S’en’s lips parted in shock, her eyes wide. “But how did they… you’ve always been so careful, I don’t—”

“I believe,” he interrupted her, “that it may have been from when we met.”

“When we met? Reven, that was eleven years ago.”

“And in a lifespan of centuries, eleven years is not very long. You are still young, but you will come to realize it in time.” Reven dragged a hand down his face, his gaze weary as it settled on how the weak moonlight caught on the air’s dust. “I overstepped my bounds. There were too many witnesses, so I sought to eliminate them entirely. By the time I had come to my senses, the amount of deaths on my hands far extended what I had set out to do. I made the mistake of killing not one but four mer from noble families, one of which was the brother of a Redoran Councilor. Llevaros must have been forced to take responsibility for it by House Redoran, and are trying to hunt me down to regain their status.”

S’en kissed her teeth and hissed. If she had been anxious before, it was nothing compared to now. She realized, suddenly, that there were no easy exits from this building; the window she could slip through, but Reven was tall man, broad shouldered despite his lithe frame. The only other door was that of the front, and the storeroom was too cluttered to pass through easily. They were vulnerable as a lame kagouti. Reven seemed to realize the same, as he gave the door to the small back room a dark look. 

“I doubt they’re planning to leave until the morning at the latest,” Reven commented. “That’s assuming the ash storm is real and not something they made up to keep us waiting longer for petty retribution.”

“Or worse.”

“I paid enough for them to keep their loyalty.” Even as Reven spoke, he did not seem convinced. With a sigh, he rubbed at his knee. 

“Let me do that,” S’en said. Reven did not protest as she spread out his bedroll and made him lay upon it. She sat cross legged and lifted Reven’s leg into her lap, fingers deftly kneading the muscles around the joint to ease the pain there. He sighed again, deeper this time, and lifted his arm to cover his eyes. S’en removed his boot and undid the laces that kept his trousers tight about the ankle, carefully rolling the fabric up his leg to just above the knee. She pulled Reven’s travel bag closer to her and rummaged around in it for the tincture of poultice that she had learned to make years ago when it became too inconvenient to carry the order to the alchemist of whatever town they were in at the time. Medicinal alchemy was not too difficult if one put their mind to it, she thought. It was merely a matter of observing the alchemist make each order and committing it to memory. 

As she began to rub the medicine into the skin surrounding Reven’s injured knee, the oil warming beneath her fingertips as she worked, she heard him mutter something.

“I can’t hear you,” she said, not lifting her gaze from his knee.

“You were the only good decision I ever made.”

Her hands stilled.

“Reven?”

He didn’t speak again for a long while. Just as S’en made to force him to lift his arm from his eyes, Reven sat up suddenly, catching her hand. 

“S’en, I need you to do something for me.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, yes now. I — this is the most important thing I’ve ever asked you to do.” His eyes were wild, bright and glistening. Something about it set S’en’s heart on edge, and she found herself returning the grasp on her hand. He lifted a hand to her cheek, softly running a thumb across the curve of her cheekbone. “I need you to go now, do you understand?”

“What do you want me to—”

“The talisman. At the shrine. The one I left. I need you to go get it, you understand? I need you to go get it and not come back until then. Do this for me. Please. You have to go, S’en.”

She looked at him, not understanding the emotion in his eyes, not understanding what he was asking of her or what it would lead to. But she nodded, because this was Reven, and even if he could be a source of strife in her life, he was her everything.  Her savior, mentor, lover, her _freedom_ . And for that, S’en would do anything.

“Good,” Reven said, pulling her closer to press a kiss to her forehead. She let her eyes flutter shut, savouring the affection. “Now go, _yi shoksuna._ ”

Hesitantly, she left his embrace, and gave him one long, last look before she hoisted herself up onto the window ledge and fled into the night.

S’en’s heartbeat pounded in her ears as she sprinted through the silent streets of Ienethis. The air was cold, scraping her lungs with every sharp inhale she took. Her legs burned in protest as she climbed the street stairs. Too slow. Twisting, she launched herself at the adjacent wall, catching on to a window divot and using it to heft herself upwards, reaching to seek handholds in the unusual insectoid architecture that marked Redoran territory. It was quicker from there, vaulting herself from domed roof to domed roof, using the ancestral tapestry banners that jutted from the clay rooftops to anchor her quick turns and sprinting across the creaking wooden slats that crossed over pitted alleyways. 

Too slow, too slow, her heart seemed to say with every beat. Something was wrong. She needed to go back to Reven. What was wrong? What was it she was feeling? Did he sell her out somehow? Was this an ambush? He wouldn’t. But would he?

She needed to go back to Reven.

But his plea. Oh, his plea. 

Ahead, she saw a light flicker from one of the alleys. Candlelight. Had she any air left in her lungs to spare she could have screamed her victory for the relief that came crashing through her body. She dropped down into the alley and landed heavily, losing her balance and falling on her side, ash blossoming about her. The ash storm was near, now, light flakes drifting through the air, the heralds of Red Mountain’s rage and rite. Dragging herself from the dirt, she hardly heeded the dust that now coated her clothes and hands as she sprinted to the beggar’s shrine. The talisman was where it had been left; S’en only looked at it long enough to ensure it was the proper one before she shoved it in her bag, turned, and began to run. 

What was wrong?

It was as she was descending one of the longer street stairwells that she was forced to slow and catch her breath. And it was in that moment that S’en placed the feeling of dread that had wedged its way into her pith.

She knew that wild look in Reven’s eyes, that glistening, near-rheumy wide-eyed stare. It was the eyes of prey, the eyes of someone before she sunk her blade neatly between their ribs.

It was the look of someone who knew they were about to die .

Reven’s name ripped its way from S’en’s throat, lost to the winds that had begun to howl. Adrenaline coursed through her veins with her renewed panic, pushing her faster, pushing her further. She hardly acknowledged how the ash made her eyes wet and sting, hardly felt the pain that shot through her ankle as she landed poorly while leaping down the remaining stairs. Toward the docks, toward the hovel—

And through the window, where she saw the unmistakable forms of two Morag Tong assassins standing above Reven’s dead body.

They hardly turned to acknowledge her before she was upon them, blade sinking into the neck of the one standing closest. Blood sprayed her face as the metal cut through the fabric wrapped around his throat and into the jugular. He dropped, and in his place the second came for her, blades flashing. She blocked his attacks, her own defense messy yet withstanding. He had skill, but she had a rage burning in her heart, turning her vision red. 

The assassin’s blade caught on hers, and he twisted, freeing the dagger from her hand and sending it skidding across the room. He swung once more, blade rushing down. Dodging, she spun, stepping in close as her hand snapped up to grasp at his face, fingers digging into the many-eyed leather cowl all Morag Tong wore.

She felt the pulse of his life, and pulled.

The rush was immediate, nearly knocking her from her feet as the assassin’s life-force flowed into her, igniting her veins in a euphoric fire. The body of the assassin crumbled beneath her touch as she stole the last air from his lungs and beating of his heart, disintegrating entirely into ash and leaving her gripping the cowl as she breathed heavily, trying to orient herself.

Reven.

S’en dropped the cowl and crossed the room, falling to her knees beside his corpse. His skin was still warm, eyes closed and expression the most peaceful S’en had seen in all the time she’d known him. In his hand was gripped his blade, the ornate, curved ebony dagger he’d said would be hers when he was finished; a vague promise that she had never expected to be fulfilled. Blood seeped dark from his chest, staining his shirt so thoroughly S’en could not tell where the wound would be. With a low keen, she lifted his body into her arms, cradling his head as hot tears found their way to her eyes, stinging the dry skin of her cheeks as they rolled. There was no sound to her sobs for how hard she cried; a silent, ugly thing, that only surfaces itself in the moments of true grief that seems as though it will be unending. When she finally found her voice, it was with a scream that threatened to bloody her throat with its intensity. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, her face pressed to his chest, to the warmth and wetness, the stench of iron and death there. 

She did not know how long she sat, weeping amid the corpses of three dead murderers. The irony did not escape her, nor did it ease her pain. Her cries eased, slowly, and she was left softly stroking Reven’s hair as she held him close to her. Then, with a rattling breath, she laid him down. From his rucksack she dug a spare shirt to fold and lay over his face. She had no funerary rites to offer. She knew no invocations for the saints, nor for the Tribunal, the living gods. But she prayed that something, someone would lead Reven to the afterlife of his ancestors, prayed that he would be happier there as he was not able to be in life.

Then, she prepared. 

She took all that was useful and left all that was not. From his hand she took the ebony blade, returning it to its sheath and tying that to her belt beside her own, inelegant chitin blade. His tinctures of healing potions, spare coin, and other things that could be sold were shoved to the bottom of her own rucksack.

There was a slice across the palm of one of his hands, blood still weeping freely from the wound. She lifted his palm to her lips and kissed the wound, her mouth stained red as she lowered his hand and gently crossed it over his chest, then the other to meet it.

The ash was falling heavily when she climbed from the window once more unto the streets of Ienethis. She kept her hood drawn up and head down as she walked through the streets toward the gates of the city. Around her, Ienethis was beginning to wake, the residents coming out from their homes to cover their windows with guar or kagouti hide to prevent the ash from making its way indoors before they prepared to go about their day heedless of the storm. The merchants were already peddling their goods by the time she walked through the bazaar, their voices not yet hoarse as they would be as the day waned on. Their words fell on numb ears, as S’en walked toward the north gates of Ienethis, toward Baan Malur.

House Llevaros took her freedom. It was them who had owned her since a child, who had owned her mother for saints knows how long before that, who had hooked her on her drug so she could hook others on her body and turn a profit to fill their fat, filthy purses. It was Reven who had freed her from them, and it was Reven who they had killed.

They would get their due. She had a debt to pay.


	11. Blacklight, Manor District, 3E 413

Clan Llevaros was nothing if not one for appearances. 

The family, who had for the last decade struggled to regain its once-promising standing within House Redoran territory, was celebrating the successful execution of the unsanctioned assassin that had served as the perpetrator for the Red Light massacre and the subsequent cleansing by fire of the entire district. This, of course, was not the public explanation for the extravagant gathering that night, presented with the half-truth of House Llevaros congratulating themselves for recent return to economic prosperity and an opportunity to demonstrate the full offerings of their trade routes. The walls of Llevaros Manor’s main hall were draped in decadent blight-moth silk, the room warm with candlelight that shone from amber lanterns hung from the vaulted ceiling. Plush embroidered cushions had been set among the chairs and chaises for patrons and the entertainment alike to drape themselves across. The tables were laden with food to entice the guests, offering roast bantam guar stuffed with scuttle, clay bottles of imported wines and flin, olives from far Bangkorai, fish cooked to melt upon the tongue, split pomegranates bearing their glistening, bloody seeds. Incense from Elsweyr lent an aromatic spice to the hall, the air heady with salt from the winds of the Waning Bay.

In the eyes of the nobility that had gathered at Llevaros Manor for the evening, Ireur Llevaros’s pride was warranted. A young patriarch by Dunmeri standards – a man no older than sixty years, brow still smooth with longevity’s touch – who had successfully usurped power from his aging father to lead Llevaros back into the political standing that they had fallen from and even higher above. As it stood, Llevaros rivaled House Sadras, both in key positions to potentially take seat on Morrowind’s Grand Council if one of the ruling Great Houses were to fall.

In Ireur’s eyes, it was only a matter of time until that day came to pass. And he knew he was not alone in his opinion on the matter; Llevaros would be watched closely in the decades to come, and he had full intention of continuing to be the head of House for when the time came for Llevaros to take its place on the Grand Council.

But the time for such things was not ripe, and for tonight, the new patriarch of House Llevaros, would only respond to inquiries about the future of the House with a sharp, tight-lipped smile, and bade his guests to enjoy the luxuries the evening offered.

The Archmaster of House Redoran had declined his invitation, but sent a penned letter commending Ireur for ‘responsibly clearing up the matter’ and informing him that House Llevaros was once more permitted to purchase property and expand their holdings within Blacklight and other Redoran territories; which was what Ireur had been seeking with the invitation regardless so the rejection did little to sting his already swollen ego. Uravus Nelalo, a merchant and accomplice of his late father’s who had been taking the brunt of Ireur’s attention for the past hour had excused himself to seek out more drink, leaving Ireur to his own devices for the time being. He lay heavy against the plush cushions of the chase he had draped himself across, limbs loose and veins warm with the alcohol running through them. He turned his eyes to the dancers who had been swaying and undulating in the corners of his vision while he’d been in the throes of discussing trade and business. Two women shared the stage, Dunmer and Bosmer, coins clinking around their hips and wrists as they writhed in Redoranis bellydance, their undulating punctuated by occasional halting, controlled movements that fell upon the beating of the drums before once more falling to smooth grace. He watched them idly, eyes drifting and settling on nowhere in particular until he looked at the face of the Bosmer to find her staring directly at him. Her stare was arresting, red eyes alight and intense. It was as though she had cast a paralysis on him. He was unable to break from the woman’s gaze as she continued to dance, feeling himself grow warm with a heat that had little to do with the alcohol or the room itself. 

Then the spell was broken as the final beat of the drum ended the dance, and the woman turned away, clearing the stage for the next dancer to take her place. Ireur sat, watching for a moment longer before he stood and made his way to a nearby table, where he grabbed the closest bottle of _sujamma_ and refilled his cup. 

“You must be the man of the hour then,” a low voice said, and he turned to find the Bosmer dancer standing beside him, picking away at the seeds of a pomegranate she held. The firelight danced across her features, high cheekbones and full lips framed by her short dark hair. Her gaze was even more hypnotic up close.

“Er, yes. I am Ireur Llevaros, if that’s what you mean,” he responded, well and truly caught off guard.

She hummed in acknowledgment. Smoothly, with the hand not cradling the pomegranate she plucked his cup from his hold and took a drink, the hint of a smile playing at the edges of her mouth from behind the rim. He swallowed thickly. 

“Congratulations then,” she purred. Drawing close, she took his hand and placed his cup back in it, her fingers guiding his to wrap around the cool clayware before she released him. He could feel the heat of her body with her this near. “A bit of a shame that you celebrate with so many others.”

Ireur was no fool. He was aware that he was being seduced, and that this woman wanted something from him. He was enough of a fool to be damn near willing to give her anything at this point, however.

“Is it now?” He said, his own voice raspy with arousal.

“Mmhmm,” she breathed. “Some praise is for giving behind closed doors. I _would_ like to congratulate you properly…. if you’re not too busy.”

“I think I could arrange that,” he muttered. 

She smiled, sweet and sharp-toothed, ivory stained with the pomegranate’s dark red juice, like blood. She popped another seed into her mouth. Heat coiled low in his belly and he forced himself to take a step back, to clear his mind from the smell and warmth of her.

He made his quick excuses before sneaking the dancer into the private chambers of the manor. She made it difficult, teasing him with touches and low words as they went. Finally the doors of his rooms closed behind them, and he found himself immediately pulled into a searing kiss. Her mouth moved against his and she pressed their bodies flush, shivering as he ran a hand up the bare skin of her lower back, tracing her spine. She nipped his bottom lip sharply. They stumbled together, managing to fall onto a nearby chaise. She laughed, sitting up to be straddling his lap and looking down at him where he attempted to gather himself from his graceless sprawl.

“I always adored the skin of your people,” he muttered, slipping his hand through the slit at her hip in the billowy silk pants and running it over her thigh as he admired the rich, tawny color. He looked at her lovely face once more, then grasped her chin and turned her head to the side, as though inspecting a ripened fruit before devouring it. “Then again, you’re not fully Bosmer, now are you?”

She fluttered her dark lashes at him, full lips quirking into a wry smile. 

“Is that so, _muthsera?_ ”

He hummed, turning her head the other way. “You’ve the eyes of a Dunmer. Red.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Shame it’s wasted on your softened features. If you weren’t tainted with that half-blood, I’d nearly consider taking one as lovely as you into my household, courtesan or no.”

This woman seemed familiar. Her sharp gaze and proud cheekbones reminded him of one of his favorite prostitutes of the House of Negotiable Affections before she abruptly disappeared. Another Bosmer, though he could not recall what her name might have been. The loss was a shame, but it seems as though he might have found himself a replacement that suited his tastes. Perhaps he would keep her around the manor as his mistress, even so.

“Well there’s no need to withhold from the taking, now is there?” she said, as she draped herself across the back of the chaise, still looking down at him. The movement was purposeful, leading his eyes to drag over the curves of her body beneath the thin silks she wore. “For you to single-handedly restore confidence in your House… now you must be a very clever man, mustn’t you? Tell me, are your hands as clever as your mind?”

“You’re quite forward,” he commented. The woman’s wry smile grew, lips parting to show another hint of sharp incisor. His interest piqued.

“I am,” she mused. “But it would only be forward if you weren’t interested, wouldn’t it _muthsera?_ You’ve worked hard.” The woman slipped from his lap. He sat up, watching her as she smoothly circled him to stand behind the chaise. He felt her hands land on his shoulders and begin to knead at the muscles, working out the tension held there. “You should relax, my lord.”

“I suppose it would be in order,” he replied, letting his head fall back against the chaise. She laughed softly. Her hands trailed up the sides of his neck gently, coming to cup his jaw, cradling his head in her palms. 

“Now then,” she said, and there was a change in the tone of her voice, turning it from the inviting lilt into something cold and hard. Her nails suddenly dug into the soft flesh of his neck. “Let me give you what you deserve.”

His eyes flew open, but it was too late, and the last words he heard were lost amid the abrupt sound of his own attempt to scream.

S’en stepped back, letting the headless body of Ireur Llevaros fall to the side. It bounced off the chaise and tumbled onto the floor, dust spilling from his neck where his head should be, mingling with the blood that was beginning to drain from his body. The life ichor was sapped from his veins, flowing into her own, her body alight with euphoria. She sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering closed as her bones sang with it. Just as it was when she had taken the lives of the assassins who took Reven from her, the feeling was intoxicating, near-overwhelming in its rapture. Addicting. She stood for a moment, hands lifted with her palms up, eyes shut as she reveled in the feeling before looking down at Ireur, her eyes hard and cold.

It wasn’t enough. Her rage still burned hot within her. Even as the corpse of House Llevaros’ patriarch lay at her feet, it would not be enough.

S’en slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Her bare footsteps were silent as she tread down the hall. A guard crossed her path, but with a suggestive smile and a finger to her lips, he merely nodded and continued along his way, uninterested in becoming involved in the entanglements of his lord. Checking to make sure the hall was empty, S’en let herself into the small storage room she’d hidden away in earlier in theday. She gathered her blades and her leathers from the crate where she had stored them, casting off the stolen silks and dressing herself in armor as she listened to the distant sounds of the celebrations ongoing in the main hall. Calmly, she drew Reven’s ebony blade from its sheath, and prepared herself for war. 

 

✥

 

The halls of House Llevaros were sticky with blood. It stained her skin, running down her blades in rivulets and reddening the floor as she limped through the halls. Her blood, their blood. It looked all the same. Her body screamed even as her bones sang with the stolen life that set them alight. It was too much. Her heart beat violently in her breast, her pulse so quick that it felt as though her breath had been struck from her lungs and she could not recover it. She wondered distantly if she was dying. She felt sick. Her skin itched. Lifting a shaking hand, she watched as a lesion cut into her wrist stitched itself together, leaving behind a scar so thin she could barely trace it in place of the wound. Somewhere beyond the elated numbness of her own mind she heard a voice, and S’en pitched forward with a gasp as she was struck in the side from behind. Pain coursed through her, and she reached around to wrap her fingers around the shaft of an arrow protruding from her back. With a scream of fury, she ripped the arrow from her. Spinning, she charged at the archer and struck out. The arrow in her fist sunk into a neck, and the assailant fell. S’en hardly noticed as she lost her balance and stumbled back to fall against the wall. She felt the skin of her back begin to stitch itself up as the stolen life healed her from within.

She was burning. From inside, she was burning alive. It was euphoric, it was horrific. She felt as though she could destroy anything in her path, she felt as though she would crumble to dust at the gentlest of winds. She hated it. She wanted more.

She needed to get out.

Her eyes snapped open, and she pushed herself from the wall, stumbling down the hall. Through the private quarters, past the bodies of those she’d already slain. Nobles, servants, men, women. All of them had fallen beneath her blade, his blade, their life singing within her veins. 

She reached the doorway that led to one of the larger hallways. Standing in the middle of it, she looked down to each end, trying in vain to remember which way she’d come earlier. There was a sound to her right, and her head snapped around to see three figures standing at the top of the stairwell that the hall opened up to on the far end. They moved menacingly, clad in loose robes that were tattered and woven around their body – obscuring but not restricting. Morag Tong. S’en had hardly a moment to catch her breath before they were upon her. Reven’s blade was torn from her hand in the fray, and she was knocked from her feet before she could recover it. She landed hard, rolling across the floor. Disoriented, she lifted herself to her feet and ducked into an adjacent room. She could hear her pursuers fast approaching as she ran. One room led to another, but her luck ran dry there as it ended in a large bed chamber with no other entrance but the one that she had come through. The far wall opened up into a balcony, the first rays of the early morning light shining faintly through. S’en’s momentum carried her there. She stumbled, catching herself on the wood railing just before she would have pitched forward to her death. The street stretched out far below, a smattering of bright colored silk and traffic as the sounds of the waking street market drifted up softly. S’en backed away, looking around, trying to find if there was any other escape. The sound fo footsteps grew louder, and she looked over her shoulder to see the assassins running for her. 

She supposed she had nothing to lose. 

With barely a running start, S’en pitched herself over the balcony edge. She felt the brush of fingers against her shoulder, trying to grab her. 

Then gravity took its toll, and she plummeted. 

The cloth awning of one of the market stalls caught her fall, fabric straining beneath the impact and threatening to rip before it pushed back, throwing her from its embrace. She landed on the dusty street hard. Someone screamed. Limbs splayed as she lay on her back, S’en ignored the shouts and murmurs of the market-goers now looking down on her as she gazed up at the distant balcony she’d leapt from. Every bone in her body thrummed and ached, her lungs burning as she sucked in harsh breaths. But she was alive. Somehow, she was alive. 

A distant shadow looked over the balcony ledge high above, and upon seeing her, vanished once more. She had to move if she wanted to _stay_ alive. Groaning, she rolled over, flinching violently at the pain that shot through her body. Experience from her childhood told her that her ribs had been broken. She wondered if this power would heal that, too.

It took a moment’s consideration before she hauled herself to her feet and began to shove her way through the crowd, high on the fumes of adrenaline and desperation and determined to make the most of it before it left her crippled in the wake of what she’d done. She ignored the shouts and sneers of bystanders in favor of the sound of her blood rushing in her ears as she ran.


	12. Blacklight, 3E 413

“It’s like the _fetching_ brothel all over again,” Drelethyn muttered as he picked his way through the remains of what was formerly the Llevaros household. The massacre had reportedly happened in the earliest hours of the morning, just as city was beginning to wake. Other obligations had prevented Drelethyn from investigating the scene personally for the most of the day, to his ire, and by the time he’d freed himself long enough to do so, the day was giving into twilight and the worst of the carnage had been dealt with. 

Most of the remaining guests had been ushered from the festivities by the hired guard when it was discovered that there was an assassin in their midst – assassin might be too kind a term, Drelethyn mused, as he partly turned over one of the brutalized corpses slumped on the floor – but the damage had been done. From the reported survivors, it seemed as though only a few cousins of the Llevaros clan had left the manor alive that night. Their runaway murderer had a very specific target in mind. 

The private quarters produced an unsurprisingly dead Ireur Llevaros. Drelethyn looked over his headless body apathetically for the brief moment allotted before the corpse was carried off by the pale-robes that had been kneeling around it. Wherever the head rolled off to, he assumed it had already been retrieved. No one was aware of his presence, currently, dressed down and helmed as he was. Just another lawman of Redoran among many. He’d found, back when he was still Second Councilor, that appearing as a low-ranking member made people more open to being asked questions. They were less afraid of saying the wrong thing or accidentally disrespecting one of a greater rank than them, and more willing to be frank.

Drelethyn noted two guards standing off to the side, helms removed and tucked into the crook of their arms. More surprising was the Morag Tong agent who stood beside them, staring at the floor as though it might burn beneath her gaze if she tried hard enough. She looked up as Drelethyn approached them, clearly irritated.

“More of you?” she asked dryly. “What, does it take an army of Redoran to have enough brains to inspect one crime scene?”

“I’m here by direct order of Archmaster Drelethyn Venim Redoran,” he said, holding up a faked order the Archmaster—himself—had penned to ‘Drelos Romoran’, a man who didn’t exist aside from occasions such as this one. “If you have any pertinent information, you are obligated to report it to me.”

The assassin gave him a dour look, but the guardsmen were more eager to be of use.

“She jumped off the balcony, _serjo_ ,” one said.

“She?” Drelethyn prompted.

“The culprit,” the other guard clarified. “A woman, about yea tall we think.” He held out his hand; it reached about where Drelethyn’s cheekbone would be. “We didn’t see what she looked like, but we know she was wielding ebony.”

“And she jumped off the balcony?” Drelethyn repeated.

“Yes, _serjo._ ”

Drelethyn crossed the room to the archway that led to the open air, framed by fluttering curtains of blight-moth silk. The balcony wasn’t particularly large, made of intricately carved wood, geometric florals inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He looked over the rail at the street below; the market square was empty aside from the present guard, the stalls and tents deserted, cordoned off while the Guard investigated the Llevaros manor and the surrounding streets.

“She survived,” came a voice from over his shoulder. He turned to see that the Morag Tong agent had joined him on the balcony, hip leaned against the rail as she regarded him impassively. 

Drelethyn looked down at the street once more. “She clearly has a will to live.”

“Or it was a failed suicide,” she said. “You said you’re here on behalf of the Archmaster, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“He’s going to want this then. The assassin dropped this right before she flung herself off. I don’t think she intended to lose it.” She fingered open a bag strapped to her hip and pulled from it a talisman; plain at first sight, but on closer inspection held a red stone that winked strangely in the light, set in a metal frame of bizarre construction, somehow near-mechanical in appearance. The Tong agent dropped it into his open hand. The moment its weight landed on his palm, Drelethyn was overcome with an inexplicable feeling of strangeness. The talisman pulsed with an ancient beat, a power that he had never felt before among the arcane encounters throughout his life. 

The woman took his silence as a question. “I don’t know what it is, but I’d assume it’s important our murderer.”

“It’s powerful. I’m surprised you didn’t just keep it for yourself.”

She looked at him as though he just spoke in riddles. “You’re joking, right? I felt like my skin was going to peel off if I held onto that thing for any longer. I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s unnatural.”

“Of course,” Drelethyn replied, making note of her words. The energy he was feeling from the stone was nothing like what she described; it was warm, alive. He tucked the talisman away into the folds of his robe. “What was the Morag Tong doing here?”

“We were hired by _Serjo_ Ireur Llevaros. He’d begun to suspect that someone was going to try to make an effort on his life, and sought to buy our hand before whoever wanted him dead could.” She snorted. “Someone wanted him dead alright. He just had the wrong reasons why in mind.”

Drelethyn frowned, though he knew she couldn’t see it behind the confines of his helm. “Why do you say that?”

“You see a lot of dead in my field, _serjo_. A murder like this? This isn’t political, this is a vendetta _._ Leaves you wondering who he killed to incite such rage.” 

The Morag Tong assassin returned to the quarters, leaving Drelethyn to muse over her words alone on the balcony. A vendetta. Somewhere in his mind, Drelethyn was aware that he held all the pieces to solve this puzzle, if only he could find how they fit together. 

His journey back to the Rootspire gave him further time to think but reaped no answers. The innocuous appearance he assumed allowed him to slip past the gathering crowd of nobility seeking to have audience with the Archmaster – with _him_ – undoubtedly to voice complaint and request further guard presence in the Manor Quarter after such a massacre occurred so near their own homes. Drelethyn had already assigned patrols to the Quarter; any other requests would simply have to wait until the morning. The hour was late and he was in no mood to listen to their frenetic quaking. 

 

✥

 

_A tall figure robed in a violent red stood beside a short bearded woman. Heavy metal hung from her ears and wrapped around her throat. The woman was Dwemer, Drelethyn realized, and wondered why he felt as though he should know her. She spoke with her hands nearly as much as her lips, words irritated and angered and unintelligible to Drelethyn’s ears. The tall figure said something to her, pacifying. The woman stopped and sat in a chair, burying her face in her hands in her frustration. The mer in the red robes spoke again — a question — and the woman looked up at him. She shifted, and from the folds of her robe drew a worn journal; one that Drelethyn recognized._

_The red-robed figure turned and looked directly at him, accusing._

Drelethyn awoke choking on his own breath. His heart pounded in his chest as though it sought to force its way from his ribcage. He blinked, once, then twice, before noticing that he stood in the center of his private quarters, sword in hand, naked as the day he was born. There was a throbbing in the wrist of his sword hand; in front of him, the splintered remains of a chair lay strewn across the floor, hacked apart in his dream-induced insanity. The sword slipped from his hand, and he dropped to his knees, face buried in his palms as he sucked deep breaths into his shaking lungs, forcing himself to steady his racing heart and calm his shivering.

It was getting worse, as Athyn had said. There were rumors of such things happening, reports from Maar Gan and Ald’ruhn and other Redoran settlements across the Inner Sea; the blighted ash storms that had begun erupting from Red Mountain carried a certain madness that infected the minds of normally passive citizens, driving them to violence and rage. It shouldn’t have reached across the sea; it should not be affecting _him_. Yet here he was, head ringing with the broken hosanna of a dead House. A poison song.

Forcing himself to his feet, Drelethyn pushed his hair back from his sweat slicked brow. The splintered chair was left strewn as it was in favor of dressing himself, trousers and a plain cotton-weave tunic in place of the elaborate many-layered robes he normally wore as a symbol of his office. It was blessedly light in comparison to that suffocating weight.

The halls of the Rootspire remained quiet with the late hour; the occasional passing guard of the late patrol startled at his presence but were quick to let him pass when they recognized him. There was little doubt in his mind that they would do the smart thing and keep quiet about his late-night going-abouts. 

His path led him out of the great doors of the Rootspire and into the city night, to Blacklight’s Temple district. The temple was lit even this late in the evening, the public ash pits in the courtyard strewn with ash yams, fire fern petals, coin, and other such offerings placed there by Blacklight’s citizens throughout the day. The Temple door opened silently beneath Drelethyn’s palm. 

The main chamber was empty. Unsurprising, considering most of the priests would be asleep at this hour. Drelethyn allowed himself to continue forth, passing through the archway and walking past the ancestral ash pits to where the shrine proper lay nestled. The Tribunal stood before him, their likeness lovingly rendered in woodcarving and resin, divinity painted in bold black lines, gaunt and stricken. Almalexia, Vivec, Sotha Sil. The living gods, the shepherds of the Dunmer people. 

He was about to settle on his knees in prayer when a voice called out to him.

“The Temple is normally closed this late in the evening, _sera._ Are you in need of aid?” 

Drelethyn turned to see Tuls Valen standing near the archway that separated the shrine from the greater Temple. The Priest startled to see who he was.

“Archmaster Venim. Forgive my familiarity, I did not recognize you.” Valen _khena’d_ in respect, hands clasped before him as he bowed at the waist. He fixed Drelethyn with a quizzical look as he straightened. “I can only assume that you’ve received another dream, if you are here at such an hour.”

“A dream that was apparently upsetting enough to warrant me hacking a chair into splinters with my sword,” Drelethyn said, his bluntness allowed only by the lack of anyone else awake to hear the admission. The furrow in Valen’s brow deepened, and he beckoned to Drelethyn with a calloused hand.

“Come, let us see what we can do.”

Drelethyn followed the priest away from the shrine and into one of the adjourning rooms where the priests would tend to the sick or the troubled. The air was musty, smelling heavily of the spice and musk of medicine. Valen gestured for Drelethyn to take his place on the kneeler as he began to rummage through the jars and parcels of dried alchemic reagents, some of which Drelethyn recognized by sight but could not name if he was pressed to. 

“Have you offered a sacrifice as I suggested?” the priest asked, his words followed by the clacking of a mortar and pestle at work. 

“I sacrificed a lamb before the household shrine on Morndas,” Drelethyn replied. “My ancestors were pleased, but upon cutting the lamb’s liver I found no answers.”

“And the Tribunal have not heard your prayers?”

“If they have, they haven’t deigned to respond,” Drelethyn scoffed.

“Close your eyes,” Valen ordered. Drelethyn did, and felt as the priest spread a mixture across his brow, drawing runes across his skin. The metallic-sweet smell told him it to be blood and pomegranate, at least in part. “If the Tribunal remains silent, it is for a purpose. Your answers are to be found elsewhere.”

_Or the Tribunal are just as clueless,_ part of Drelethyn wanted to say, but the thought was blasphemous, and he held his tongue. 

There was a flare of light as Tuls Valen set a new stick of incense aflame; its smoke was thick and fragrant, painting the air white. In his other hand the priest held a blackened, shrivelled spore. Drelethyn parted his lips, allowing the priest to place the spore on his tongue, before taking the incense stick from his hand and letting his eyes fall shut once more as a drifting sense of calm washed over him. 

At first, he had found himself recalling the dream that had awoken him. With effort, he’d been able to push it from his mind and lend it to a silent contemplation. He did not know how long his meditation lasted. When he finally opened his eyes once more, his legs felt stiff, and the sky was beginning to lighten with the first few rays of sunrise outside the small port of the resin windowpane. With a groan he lifted himself to his feet; despite the ache in his bones, his mind felt clearer, the haze of the dream having passed and in its place a reinforced lucidity. It would last for a week at best, he knew, before the drudge song of the Sixth House would come with its curse once more. 

The Temple was alive with the quiet sounds of the priests going about their early morning duties. Tuls Valen was nowhere to be seen. As Drelethyn made his way to the main room, he noticed a priestess dressed in the white robes of Saint Meris laying a sheet over a body, preparing it for anointing, embalming, and burning. It was one of four that were laid out along the dias. The unusual number alone gave Drelethyn pause, and after a moment’s consideration he let himself into the room.

“Who are they?” he asked, looking at the peaceful expression of the one corpse whose face lay uncovered. 

“Victims of the Llevaros attack, _ser._ That one was a member of clan Ramarys; he was the only one we could identify,” the priestess replied.

Drelethyn frowned. “The only one you could identify?”

The Priestess did not respond, instead gesturing to the corpse that lay beneath the sheet beside the dead man that Drelethyn looked at. Carefully, Drelethyn lifted the sheet to take a look at the state of the body it covered. A sharp intake of breath sucked between teeth followed what he saw. The corpse was intact, for the most part, but was missing one arm along with the entire head and clavicle. The skin around the vacancy seemed burnt almost, flaking off, skin and bones alike seeming to disintegrate into dust.

“Just like the brothel,” he muttered, recalling his own words from earlier as the pieces fell into place in his mind. Quickly he dropped the sheet and strode from the room. The priestess called out after him, confused, but he ignored her as he kept up his quick pace, intent on returning to his chambers in the Rootspire as quickly as possible. 


	13. Blacklight, 3E 413

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for brief mention of implied attempted non-con.

S’en’s lungs burned. Her throat burned. Everything _burned._

Distantly, she heard herself whimper, back to the wall, hidden in some blackened alley-way in the burnt remains of the Red-light district. Ended up back where she started, just as she’d started. The part of her that was still lucid beneath the withdrawal that ravaged her body was mortified.

The rest of her braced her hand on the alley wall and violently threw up.

It took a handful of moments and more than a few tries to calm her heaving, leaving her a coughing, shaking wreck. 

S’en made it about five steps away from the mess she’d created before her legs gave out, her knees hitting the packed dirt hard enough to bruise. She barely felt it.

_What had she done?_ She’d wanted revenge. She’d wanted to make Llevaros pay. She got what she’d wanted. And then she hadn’t stopped. 

She couldn’t recall how many people she had murdered. She knew, vaguely, that innocents numbered among them. One of them had barely been older than a child. One of them _was_ a child. That was the most horrifying part of it all.

And yet it hadn’t been _enough_. Her body was screaming for more, _just one more, please, just one_ , waging war against where her conscious mind was suffocating in guilt and willing herself to die. She curled in on herself, face pressed to her knees as she felt herself shake and convulse, teeth gritted as she forced herself to stay hidden, to stay away from anyone else she could hurt. 

_Are you sure about this, S’en?_ Reven’s voice whispered from her memory. 

She had been so certain. Now she cursed herself with every rattle of her bones. 

She didn’t know what this power was. Reven hadn’t known what it was. Now she couldn’t control it, and he was dead and gone. No one could help her. He wouldn’t have been able to help even he were still here. 

But if he were still here, at least there’d be someone at her side. If he were still here, this would have never happened in the first place.

She knew she had become addicted, could already feel that itch beneath her skin. Addicted to… to _killing_ , to draining people for their life-force. It was a power that she had and did not know how to control. It was a craving she would not be able to simply ignore. She was responsible for the deaths of at _least_ a dozen people, if not more. 

S’en was an assassin by trade. Murder was something she had learned to live with. But with the assassinations she’d carried out, she’d known a bit about her targets, enough to know that they were not good people, or in the least had knowingly put themselves in a position where they could end up facing the fate that she was set to deliver. This revenge of hers, this _massacre_ , had not been that. It had been justified, until it wasn’t. Her victims had been deserving, until they weren’t. And with the veil of rage and vindication pulled aside, all that remained was a deep, heart-aching guilt.

A sob escaped her, her throat thick with the sound. It escalated, and soon she was screaming, muffled by the leather armor on her legs. 

Then, she felt it. A hum of energy, just out of reach. There was someone nearby. Just as abruptly as her cries had begun, they ceased. She scrambled to her feet, back to the wall, holding herself still, willing herself to remain unseen. A Dunmer stumbled around the corner into the alley, blatantly drunk in broad daylight. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head in her direction. A lecherous smile spread across his face. She cursed. It only made sense, she supposed, that rats would continue to scuttle in the burnt ruins of Baan Malur’s slums.

“Wa’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, coming closer. “You look like you could use some comfortin’.”

“Stay away from me.” Any strength behind her words was lost in the shaking of her voice. 

“It’s alright, I’ll help you, yeah?”

“I said, _stay away._ ”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” He reached out to touch her, but she ducked under his arm, quick back away, keeping an eye on him. He frowned at the place she had just been standing, before looking at her. Anger began to bloom on his features.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat. 

“ _Half breed bitch,_ ” he sneered. “Come _here!”_

He lunged, one hand curling around her upper arm, and S’en reacted before she could stop herself. Lashing out, she grabbed him by the throat. He made a choked, gurgling sound, eyes going wide as she latched on and drew the life from his body, the rosen-red sparks seeping from his skin and finding a new home beneath her own. His hands scrambled at where hers held him by the throat, trying to pry at her grip, but it was already too late. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he made one last exhale of air, before he seemed to combust, burning from the inside and crumbling into a pile of ash, ember, and bone. 

The dead mer’s bones made a dull sound as they hit the dirt. S’en stared down at them, unmoving, her eyes wide. The shaking of her body had stopped, flesh warm with the stolen life that lay beneath it. It was blissful. She could think clearly again. 

With a scream of rage, she swept up the blackened skull and hurled it at the wall with all her might. It shattered. She stayed only long enough to catch her breath before she was running once more.

 

✥

 

Over the past twenty-four hours, Drelethyn had come to a number of conclusions. 

The first of these conclusions is that the perpetrator of the Llevaros massacre is the same as that of the Red Light killings, and that Reven Serthi, the man Ireur Llevaros had claimed to be the responsible party, was either still alive or was never guilty of those crimes in the first place.

The second of these conclusions is that the Temple could offer him no cure nor reprieve from the dreams that threatened to steal their way into his waking moments and seed their insanity deeper, and that the Tribunal either would not, or _could_ not, aid him.

The third and final of these conclusions was that the book he’d seen the Dwemer woman holding in the last of his dreams was the same ancient, yellowed tome that lay on his desk before him right now. 

Before he’d been the Archmaster, before he’d been a Councilor or a Second Councilor or even a member of the Redoran Guard, a young Drelethyn Venim got it into his head that he wanted to be a Dwemer Historian, studying the ancient lost civilization’s culture and mechanical beings and, perhaps, just perhaps, be the one to uncover the reason behind the entire race’s mysterious, simultaneous disappearance. In that time, before his interest had been more or less sidelined by responsibility and duty to House Redoran, Drelethyn had managed to wander the halls of a Dwemer ruin nearby his childhood home and, by a stroke of absurd luck, secure himself a genuine artifact from the otherwise pillaged ruin. This book, hand-written in careful Dwemeris, was undoubtedly extremely valuable to the Dwemer scholarly community, but Drelethyn had kept it to himself over all the years. Now, back in the day, he’d lacked the resources to be able to translate the Dwemeris to something marginally readable, and wasn’t about to hand it over to a scholar who would undoubtedly make off with the book. Drelethyn nowadays had lacked the time, and had kept the book mostly as a curio and a relic of his still-standing interest in Dwemer historical studies. But he had never been able to read what was written there.

Now, apparently, it had something to do with the dreams he was plagued by. 

Drelethyn reached to a shelf above his desk, taking down from it a wooden box containing a long handled pipe. He packed the bowl and set it aflame with a snap of his fingers, embers jumping from his skin to the herbs inside. Drawing upon it deeply, he sighed and slumped backward in his chair.

Of the past twenty-four hours, the last handful had been dedicated to the making of something resembling a plan. A shoddily crafted plan, admittedly, filled with improvisations and risks, but at this rate he’d exhausted all other resources. The dreams were only growing worse. If he stayed as the head of House Redoran, he ran the risk of his growing insanity being discovered, completely destroying his standing and practically handing Bolvyn his victory on a limeware platter. Or — worse — he faced the possibility that the dreams of the Sixth House would swallow him entirely, turning him into a puppet for the Sixth House to influence all of Redoran through. 

He needed to find a cure to these dreams. If his hunch was right, the book that sat before him may hold some of the answers to where that cure may be found, or in the least point him in the right direction. If he were anyone else, he would be able to simply start looking. But as it stood, he could not leave Baan Malur seemingly on a whim, nor could he make public his reasons for doing so.

Simply _stepping down_ as Archmaster was not an option. To do so would dishonor himself, his clan, and the traditions of the House. It would revoke his legitimacy as a leader and a warrior and undo all that he had achieved throughout his tenure. The only way to preserve his legacy and free himself of the position of Archmaster was to die. 

Exhaling a cloud of white smoke, Drelethyn’s eyes drifted from the ancient Dwemer tome to the simple ebony dagger that lay on his desk—and beside it the strange, red-stoned talisman that hummed with an unknown power.

The killer responsible for the Red Light killings and the Llevaros massacre—given the lovely and surely not unnerving title of the _Ara-dra_ by the city guards—was an assassin of unprecedented skill, armed with a power before unseen. Drelethyn, with his long-earned reputation of being incredibly _hard to assassinate_ , had not only one, but two items in his possession that he suspected this “ash-death” would want back. 

_Taking risks had paid off in the past,_ he mused, taking a drag from his pipe. If he played his hand right, it may pay off once more.

 

✥

 

This needed to end.

She couldn’t continue this way, for her sake and for the sake of others. The skin hunger that consumed her would only grow worse, spiraling out of control until she began to prey on innocent people indiscriminately. So far, she’d been able to restrain herself, targeting would-be rapists and muggers, but even in a city so large it would only be a matter of time before that sort of folk either killed her in return or ran in short supply. 

Really, the cleanest solution would be for her to die.

But there was the weak part of her that clung to life, nails dug into the flesh of an idea that she could one day revel in the beauty of the world if only the cruelty of it released her from its grasp. The selfish child within her that still complained that she hasn’t gotten her _turn,_ damn it, and she would continue to stand here, raising hell and dragging others into ruin until she got what she wanted.

That was the part of her that always placed the knife back down after she’d been staring at it for too long.

S’en hadn’t noticed that she had lost Reven’s talisman until after she had fled the market, running down streets and alleys to finally hide away in the sewers of Baan Malur like a rat.There was no possibility she’d be able to approach the manor district—let alone the manor that had belonged to Llevaros—without being immediately recognized and captured. To even think of trying was a fool’s errand. But she could not _stop_ thinking about it, the guilt eating her slowly from inside.

_This is the most important thing I’ve asked you to do,_ Reven’s voice spoke from her memory, his voice strained and sweet, and S’en’s throat threatened to choke on her anguish. 

The last thing he’d ever said to her, the last favor he asked of her, and she had failed. Failed, and fallen back into the cycle of addiction and helplessness he had helped her from. It was as though he had never been there at all.

S’en took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her head against the slick wall of the under-city cistern she’d taken to hiding in, claiming one of the drier corners that could be found. 

That wasn’t true. S’en now knew what it was like to be loved—not a perfect love, but one that was _there_. S’en knew a happiness that she had only been able to imagine as she lay unfeeling beneath her clients at the brothel. She knew the first tastes of freedom. And her hunger for that freedom was greater than any given to her by any drug or… whatever this life-stealing was. 

She itched. 

Anger flared in her chest, hot, sudden, and startling. With a scream of rage, she grabbed the nearest thing within reach and hurled it at the wall. Being an old bottle fished from the soiled waters, it shattered violently, doing something to satisfy her need to tear into something. She stared at the broken pottery pieces strewn across the floor, breathing hard, remembering the blackened skull in the alleyway.

_Fetch it._ She was not going to become the hollow, shadow of a person she was before. She was not going to fall victim to cravings and forces beyond her control. She would not become a puppet. This power was hers to conquer and control, and she would do just that or die trying.

S’en had little doubt that Reven’s strange talisman—whatever it was—had some connection to his, and her, ability to reap the life force of others. The pulsing _life_ she had felt emanating from the stone left no mistake. If she wanted to figure out what this power was, and how to contain it, she needed the stone. If she wanted the stone, she would have to return to Llevaros manor.


	14. Blacklight, Manor District, 3E 413

**** It took S’en three days to work up the nerve to act. Three days, and five more dead. They would not be missed. Of that, she was certain.

The night was warm as S’en walked quickly through the streets of Baan Malur, keeping out of sight. She’d donned her assassin’s leathers, armor she had not worn since the night at the Llevaros manor. Her heartbeat seemed to grow louder in her ears with every step she took, her limbs rattling with unconstrained nerves. 

The manor district was heavily patrolled by the Redoran Guard. S’en nearly walked straight into one, ducking behind a low wall at the last moment, holding her breath as the light of the red-bellied lantern the guard held illuminated the area and slowly faded as he passed. She waited a long moment before peeking out from behind the crate and moving on, properly sneaking this time. Progress was slow. She was careful about her approach, rushing nothing, taking no risks. Her training as an assassin had been a lesson in patience, more than anything else. And though nerves had initially sent the moths in her stomach fluttering, a familiar calm overtook her now, as her thoughts were forced to cease their circling and her focus was kept entirely on remaining quiet and unseen. 

Eventually, the Llevaros manor presented itself. S’en approached from the east end, careful to not sneak in the same way she did the time before. She hoisted herself up on a crate, reaching up to grip where the end of a wooden beam stuck out from the clay wall. With a jump, she pushed herself upwards, quickly shoving a foot beneath her to crouch on the beam, hand smacking against the wall as she caught her balance. The window above was just out of reach, no matter how far she stretched. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then leapt, fingers reaching. She caught the ledge of the window with one hand, the other scrabbling for a handhold, and for a heart-stopping moment it seemed as though she would fall. Then her hand found it’s grip, and she hauled herself up, tumbling into the dark room beyond with a quiet swear. 

She found herself in some sort of store room. Bushels of herbs swayed hung from wooden drying racks bolted to the ceiling. Sacks of wickwheat flour and saltrice sat stacked in corners atop salting barrels and crates. S’en took a moment to catch her breath, crouched small on the floor, listening to hear if anyone had noticed her, but the room was dead silent.

She peeked out the door, finding the hall beyond to be just as dark and empty. 

The entire manor was quiet. Untouched, almost, in the wake of the violence wrought here. S’en herself seemed to not be the only one who had avoided this place since that night. 

Quietly, she made her way through the manor, letting vague memory guide her to the main hall. The room looked as she had seen it last, in its ruined glory, left as it was with only the dead having been removed. Benches and elegantly embroidered cushions lay blood-stained, strewn and toppled. Flies had collected on the food left on the tables. The split-bellied pomegranates had given birth to mold. Fat white maggots writhed in the rotting flesh of the bantam guar roast. S’en’s nose wrinkled at the smell. 

She went about her search quickly. She was fairly certain that she’d had the talisman throughout her time in this part of the manor, but thought to check nonetheless. When upended cushions and peering into shadowed corners turned up nothing, she moved on, working her way deeper.

Inevitably, she found herself once more in Ireur Llevaros’ private quarters. Simply being in the place set her on edge, but she pushed aside the feeling. S’en was about to resume her search when something caught her eye. There, in the middle of the low tea-table that sat before the chaise upon which she had murdered the Llevaros patriarch, sat a note, folded and stabbed through with Reven’s ebony blade. 

S’en’s blood ran cold. Immediately, she turned, peering at the dark shadows of the room, trying to spot the assassin undoubtedly lying in wait there.

There was no one but her. 

But someone knew she was here.

Cautiously, S’en approached the tea table. She reached out, slowly, hesitantly, then grabbed the dagger and yanked it from the table, taking five steps back as she clutched it to her chest and stared at the note, expecting it to explode or begin omitting a poisonous gas or some other sort of sorcery she was unfamiliar with. The note fluttered gently in the cold night breeze that wafted in from the open balcony, and did nothing of the sort. Now convinced the piece of paper would not somehow kill her on its own, she picked it up, carefully unfolding it. 

There were words written on it, in some sort of scrawl that S’en suspected would be near illegible even if she could read. But there, at the very bottom, was the stamp of a stylized scarab, blood red, with its legs splayed and wings spread, so similar to the symbol of House Redoran yet not quite.

That, S’en recognized well enough. She’d seen this scarab enough times before to know it to be the Archmaster’s seal. S’en didn’t need to read any words to understand this message well enough; this was for _her_ to find. 

She looked at Reven’s blade, then the note again. Then, her gaze turned to the balcony, where out in the night the lit Rootspire rose up from the clutter of the city, a sentinel to watch over Baan Malur. 

She was fairly certain the Archmaster had Reven’s talisman. Now it was only a matter of reaching the man himself.


	15. Blacklight, 3E 413

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, sorry! I struggled a fair bit with this chapter - it's shorter than I'd like it to be, and I'm not sold on the first half being told from the perspective that it is, but I felt I should update nevertheless. There's a chance this chapter will be altered in the future, but the plot is there.

Drelethyn, quite honestly, had no idea how she had gotten into his chambers — despite him purposefully misplacing the Guard that evening, he’d expected the _Ara-dra_ to have been apprehended at some point. But no, there she stood, a woman more slight than he’d expected. He couldn’t see her face beneath the mask that covered her mouth and nose, but the glare she was giving him from beneath the lip of her hood could kill a lesser man on the spot.

If she weren’t a mentally unstable mass-murderer with the profane ability to strip someone down to their bones with a touch, Drelethyn suspected she would be the sort of person he’d be interested in getting to know better. Pity how these things work out. 

“The _Ara-dra_ , I presume?” he asked. She snorted, a derisive sound.

“Ash-death? Is that what you’re calling me?”

“That’s what _they_ call you. I’ve nothing else to call you, unless you feel like offering. I could come up with a number of names for you, but I doubt you’d appreciate them.” 

“Are you always this charming, Archmaster Venim?” His name alone was practically an insult on her tongue. 

“Only in charming company,” he quipped, grinning.

She made a sound that he’d almost think was a laugh had he not known better, and he gave her a lazy grin before taking another drag from his pipe. 

“I’m here, like you asked. Are you going to give me my talisman back or are you going to call in the guards?” she asked casually, as though she didn’t have a preference in the matter.

“Both, and neither. If this night ends how I intend it to?” He pointed at her with his pipe. “You will be the one killing _me._ ”

“…What?” She was visibly thrown, looking at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“Not literally,” he clarified. “See, I’ve come into a bit of a… situation, recently, one that I have to seek the answers to elsewhere. But the nature of this problem is one I can’t have the public knowing about, nor can I just up and leave Baan Malur for an extended period of time without having due cause. I am someone who is, for better or for worse, known for being very, very difficult to assassinate. You are an assassin with an unexplained capability to murder people. Put those two together, and we have an ‘assassination’ carried out by the only assassin feasibly capable of killing me.” 

“You want to fake your death and pin the blame on me in exchange for you returning what’s mine,” she clarified. At his nod, she sneered. “Why shouldn’t I actually kill you and _take_ the talisman?”

“Because you can’t. Kill me that is. Hence, ‘feasibly’.” Drelethyn took another puff from his pipe, hiding his own uncertainty at his word behind the motion. He could only hope she’d believe him and not make the attempt. He had confidence in his own ability to not die, so thoroughly tested as it was, but he suspected she might be capable of beating those odds. 

“And what do I get out of taking the blame for your death?” she asked. “I’m not an idiot. You’re the Archmaster. If I ‘kill’ you, the entire Redoran Guard is going to be combing every town and city in the area looking for me. Getting my talisman back won’t help with that.”

“But safe, confidential passage to Vvardenfell would,” he replied. “Just enough of a frontier that you can disappear if you wanted to. Start again, with a clean slate.” 

She fell completely still, tense. For a moment, Drelethyn thought that she’d bolt, and take with her his best chance at getting out cleanly. He sat, unmoving, some part of him convinced that if he matched her stillness he could prevent her from fleeing. 

“A clean slate,” she said. “You can do that?”

“We’d be traveling from here to Gnaar Mok. A backwater fishing town small enough that maps don’t bother include it. From there you can go,” he waved his hand in the air, “wherever you like. Disappear.”

She was quiet for a long moment, switching her weight from one leg to the other and back again.

“I want what’s mine as up-front payment,” she said.

Drelethyn reached behind him and dragged forward a wooden box that had sat further away on the desk. Opening the lid, he plucked the talisman from where it lay nestled in cloth. For a moment he simply held it, marveling once more at the warmth it emanated, pulsing beneath his fingertips as it winked with some light from within. She made an impatient sound. Drelethyn tossed it to her, perfectly aimed, and she caught it from the air without having to take a step.

How she relaxed the moment it was nestled in her hand did not escape his attention. 

She tied the cord around her neck and tucked the talisman away beneath the folds of her scarf before looking back at him. He sat still as her gaze lingered over him, calculating, before stopping on the hand that cradled his pipe, the ebony scarab-shaped ring of House Redoran heavy around his middle finger.

“How attached to your fingers are you?” she asked. 

 

✥

 

The city was quiet this late at night. Barely a soul walked the streets of Baan Malur; even the guards were lazy about their patrols, walking slowly without paying much attention to where they were going, something S’en certainly wasn’t about to complain about.

Beside her, Venim was quiet, obscured in a heavy cloak and carrying a red-bellied paper lantern. The way he kept his heavily bandaged hand cradled close to his chest was the only indication of the pain he was certainly in. She’ll admit, his pain tolerance was impressive. She did just cut his finger off. A clean cut, sure, but still.

All that “remained” of Drelethyn Venim at the Rootspire was blood, that finger, and a pile of ashes he’d had prepared already, of what origin S’en decided she did not want to know.

When he’d given her Reven’s talisman back, she had, for a moment, simply considered leaving. But the prospect of a clean slate was enticing. The night was cold and fog-laden as they made their way to where the city sloped down to the wharf. Something about it set S’en on edge. 

_It’s just like the night Reven was killed_ , she realized, and a cold terror made its way up her spine.

Venim apparently noticed, because he turned to give her a questioning look.

She waved him off, keeping her gaze firmly fixed before her as she continued to walk.

The wharf was silent this late at night. Venim apparently had expected as much, as he immediately made for one of the ramps leading to a modest ship, its deck seemingly abandoned. She followed as he made his way to the cabin, standing before the closed door. He paused for a moment, then turned and held out the lantern to her.

“Hold this,” he said. When she didn’t move, he sighed deeply and placed it on the deck beside him. Then he knocked on the cabin door.

There was a long silence. Long enough that S’en began to wonder if he had the wrong ship. Then, the door opened with a creak, and a man peeked his head out. 

“I take it you’re Romoran, then,” the man said. “I expect to get paid before we cast off, I hope you know.”

Without a word Venim reached to his belt, fumbling at the ties with his one good hand before freeing a coin purse from it with a yank. He dropped it into the sailor’s outstretched hand. The man hefted it in his palm, as though testing the weight.

“Half up front,” Drelethyn said at the man’s bothered expression, “and half for safe passage.” 

“That wasn’t the agreement,” the man groused.

“The terms have changed,” Drelethyn said simply, and though the words were not quite the same, the familiarity of this situation had panic rising in S’en’s throat, her body in a sudden cold sweat. She held her breath, suddenly expecting the worst, doing her best not to be too obvious about looking for the Morag Tong assassins she was certain would be leaping from the shadows, their blades flashing in the dark— 

“Fine, have it your way,” the man said. He disappeared into the cabin. There was a muffled shouting, then a deckhand came stumbling out to untie the ship from where it was tethered to the dock and right the sails. 

“You two sit below deck,” the shiphead said, coming back out once more, waving his hand toward a hatch on the other end of the boat. “Don’t want you two running around getting in our way.”

Drelethyn thanked him, whereas S’en simply made her way to the hatch the man had gestured to. She was still on edge, still expecting for this to go just as badly as the last time she’d attempted to get to Vvardenfell. The below-deck was small. S’en sat and made herself as comfortable as able, her back propped up against bags of what she presumed was saltrice, near the ladder going up with a clear view of the hatch. She willed her nerves to calm themselves. 

This was going to be a long night.


	16. Vvardenfell, 3E 413

The wooden walls of the ship hull did little to keep out the frigid night air that had blown down from the north. S’en shivered, arms crossed and knees tucked tight to her chest to try to keep warm. She rest her cheek against her knee, watching the long shadows cast by the lantern move and dance as it swayed with the gentle rocking of the boat. 

Venim had situated himself on the other side of the under-deck, far enough from her to be a respectable distance while staying close to the ladder himself. He was slumped over a crate, using his arm as a pillow. From the deepness of his breathing, S’en could tell he was asleep. Part of her was surprised he _could_ sleep, considering that she’d threatened to kill him not a few hours ago. But the darkness beneath his eyes had not escaped her attention. The Archmaster clearly had not been sleeping. Her gut told her it had something to do with whatever it was that compelled him to seek her out and leave Baan Malur. 

She watched as he muttered something in his sleep, readjusting before settling once more. Her gaze wandered from his face down to the bandaged hand cradled in his lap. His finger — or where his finger _had_ been — was still bleeding, she noticed. Apparently the healing potion he’d taken to aid it wasn’t quite cut out for larger wounds. But one wouldn’t bleed out from losing a finger alone, so he’d survive.

S’en knew that a smarter assassin might kill him now and be done with it—he certainly was making himself a temptingly easy target at the moment. But S’en wasn’t sure how neutral these sailors were, if they would care that she’d left a dead man beneath their deck or if they’d simply shrug and throw his corpse overboard for the slaughter fish to eat. Nor was she certain this Gnaar Mok _was_ a backwater town like Venim had claimed. The last she wanted was to be on the run from the guards the moment she stepped on dry land. 

Not to mention she would be bringing the wrath of House Redoran down upon herself more than she already had. 

_Venim played his hand well_ , she thought angrily, exhaling harshly through her nose. 

S’en curled in on herself tighter and closed her eyes. She fell into something akin to rest, letting her thoughts wander while still remaining somewhat aware of her surroundings. Her sleep, light as it was, was troubling, her mind circling on strange thoughts that she couldn’t sort out nor break away from. Her mounting frustration eventually was what woke her, sitting up straight and scrubbing at her face to dispel her thoughts. 

At the sound of shuffling, she looked up.

Venim had stood, swaying lightly on his feet. His head was turned, staring at something unseen, muttering beneath his breath. Something about it immediately struck S’en as unnerving, and she cautiously rose to her feet as well.

“Venim?” she said.

He didn’t respond, simply continuing to sway, loose limbed. 

“ _Venim,_ ” she repeated, louder this time.

Slowly, slowly, he turned to look at her, his expression perfectly blank, eyes open but unseeing.

S’en barely saw the flash of metal before she threw herself to the side, Venim’s blade coming close enough to her head to cut a lock of hair short. She hit the floor and rolled gracelessly. Scrambling to her feet, she retrieved her own daggers from their sheaths, muscles taught and ready to spring.

But Venim hadn’t moved. He simply stood, sword loose in his hand, facing where S’en had been standing just before, still muttering. 

_He’s still asleep,_ S’en realized. After a moment’s hesitation, she sheathed her daggers again and switched tactics. With a cry she rushed Venim from the side. He turned, too slowly. She grappled him. Grasping his wrist, she twisted his hand, forcing his fingers open. His longsword clattered to the floor. She quickly kicked it away. Sitting on his thighs to keep him pinned, S’en drew her arm back and punched him hard in the face. 

“ _Ow!”_ Drelethyn, definitely awake now, lifted his free hand to touch his cheek. “ _B’vek_ , what do you think you’re—” 

His words trailed off as he took in what was going on. He looked about the cabin briefly before looking at where S’en glared down at him, still sitting atop his legs.

“What was that for!?” he demanded, sneering now. 

“ _You’re_ the one who tried to kill me in my sleep!” she snapped. “Be _grateful_ I didn’t just kill you and call it self defense.” 

Drelethyn fell still for a moment, then let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Let me up,” he muttered.

S’en stood, releasing his wrist and letting him sit up. He scrubbed a hand over his face, before looking over to where his sword lay, kicked into a corner.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he said, getting up and retrieving the blade to settle it back into its sheath. 

“You _suppose,_ ” she echoed, sarcastic. Nonetheless she sat on the floor once more, against the rice sacks she’d rested on earlier. 

Drelethyn sat on top of a crate and ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think of the best way to explain.

“Have you heard about the dreams?” He asked. 

“That’s specific,” S’en said blandly, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll take that as a no then. In the past year or so, there have been rising reports of people suffering from strange dreams that plague their sleep. At first, the reports weren’t too concerning. Mass nightmares have been known to happen before, and the Temple assured the people that they were doing everything to keep the minds and souls of the people safe.”

“I take it they weren’t successful,” S’en said.

“It got worse, is the problem. Victims would fall into a dream state in which they’d ‘awaken’, often lashing out violently. The number of murders found to be linked to these ‘Dreamers’ was on the rise. The Dreamers would wake up to find themselves inexplicably jailed, standing over the body of a killed loved one, or somewhere they did not recognize at all, with no recollection of how they had gotten there. Those who suffered from the dreams too long, eventually, seemed as though they had fallen under the control of something. But they would act normally for the most part, so no one would notice until it was too late.”

“And you’ve been suffering from these ‘dreams’,” S’en concluded.

“Doesn’t do much for House Redoran for their Archmaster to be going insane,” Drelethyn said bitterly. “The Temple was unable to help or be of any use, and so I’ve been forced to find my own solutions before I lose it completely. Hence our deal.”

S’en, for her part, was deeply disturbed. The idea that one’s mind could be slowly taken over and controlled and that _no one would notice_ was horrifying. No wonder why Venim looked so exhausted. She wouldn’t want to sleep either.

They lapsed into silence once more, S’en sitting against the rice bags and Drelethyn atop the crate, apparently having reserved himself to another sleepless night so that he didn’t kill her in his sleep. Any chances S’en had at rest herself were lost amid her thinking about what Venim had told her.

If she had to guess, it was a few hours before they were fetched to above-deck by one of the shiphands. It was early, the newborn morning sun red in the sea fog. S’en watched as distant huts rose from the mist, forming into something tangible as they drew close. The ship docked, the crew tying it up with easy, practiced movements.

Venim gave the captain the other half of his pay. Then, they were left to stand on the docks, in a strange land S’en had wondered about for so many years but never thought she’d get to see. Gnaar Mok was clearly the humble fishing town Venim had implied it to be; little more than a cluster of ramshackle wood plank huts with thatched roofs, some of them on stilts as they drew closer to the waterside. The fishermen who were awake with the early morning watched them curiously.

“Well, this is where I take my leave,” Venim said beside her, startling her from her reverie. “Good luck. Try not to kill as many people this time around.”

With that sardonic comment he was gone, walking off until the thick fog obscured him from view. And for the first time in her life, S’en found herself to be utterly, completely, and terrifyingly free, with no idea of where to go from here. 


	17. Balmora, 3E 415

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PART II**

_Silk swayed to the beating of a drum. Sweat ran down the small of her back as she twisted to the sound, controlled, fluid. Nauseating. Her own eyes closed against the disgusting, lustful stares of those who watched her. The air was thick with incense, thick with blood. A scream pierced the song, and her body flared alight with a sudden rapture. She opened her eyes to look down at the corpses she danced upon, smoldering ember and charred bones scattered across the floor. The audience was gone. A lone figure stood, watching her, gaze piercing and hidden behind a mask of gold. She stilled, caught. He tilted his head to the side, questioning._

_Why do you run? He asked._

_The drum continued to beat._

**_Thudum, Thudum._ **

She awoke with a gasp, consciousness hitting her hard enough to rattle her bones. Her vision swam for a moment before clearing, revealing the Balmoran back alley she stood in. That she was standing was odd enough; that she did not know where she was, disturbing. Lifting one shaking hand, she held it beneath the weak lamplight that filtered from a high window, the skin of her knuckles cut, bloodied, and bruised. She inhaled harshly; the movement sent a jolt of pain through her mouth. She touched her lip unthinkingly, feeling the split there, her hand coming away wet. 

A familiar, unsettling euphoria ran through her veins, foreign life burning there. She had no memory of attacking anyone.

“ _N’chow_ …” she swore softly, then quickly looked about her to see if she could see what remained of the victim, who they may have been. There was a Dunmer man slumped further down the alley. He made no move as she approached him, and merely snuffled loudly as she nudged his shoulder with her toe. There were signs of disease on him, but none of injury; a beggar then, cradling a bottle of cheap alcohol even in his sleep. S’en distanced herself quickly at the sight of festering boils running up the side of his neck. She had never been one to fall sick easily, but she was not about to take her chances. 

The moons of Masser and Secunda hung heavy above, nearly oppressive with how much of the night they consumed. S’en realized, as she looked around her, that she was in an alley near the market district, across the river from where she lived. That and judging by the position of the stars she’d only been asleep for a mere hour or two before the dream had taken her over and she found herself here. She hugged herself tightly, trying not to think too hard on who it may have been that she had unknowingly killed.

Balmora was not a city that was quiet at night. The cornerclubs kept their doors open late, politicians, wealthy merchants, and the merely ambitious turning low-lit tables into battlegrounds for schemes and business transactions. First impressions always improved when accompanied by the offer of a free bottle of _mazte_ — the saltrice wine favored in the region — or flin for those who had the coin and wanted to appeal to those fond of the influence brought by the East Empire Trading Company.

Drunken leers drifted down from the rooftop of one such cornerclub as S’en passed on the street below, walking quickly and keeping a far enough distance so none of the upper-class scum would attempt to spit or piss on her. House Hlaalu claimed to be welcoming to outlanders, but the veneer of amicability wore off with the late hour. S’en was no outlander, not with her Maluri accent and culture, but most never bothered to look beyond her skin. 

_Better an outlander than a Redoran in Balmora_ , she mused as she wound her way through the cramped alleys and took the stairs that led down to where the city embraced the River Odai.

The pavers were cold beneath her feet as she made her way toward a main through pass, the padding of her footsteps loud in the quiet night. The distant sound of late-night revelry helped her orient herself as she recognized herself to be in a residential area near the southern market district. ‘Labor town’, as it was so fondly called. The dingy hole in the wall that she called home was further from where she was than she’d like it to be, and the memory of the dream wiped any desire for sleep from her body, leaving a manic energy in its place. So instead of going home, S’en let her feet carry her toward the southern market district, where there stood the South Wall cornerclub; formally a public house that the Thieves Guild informally operated out of. Normally she wasn’t one to associate herself with her guildmates outside of necessity, but she would go so far as to say a stiff drink was necessary at the moment.

The cornerclub was alive despite the late hour. S’en’s arrival was witnessed by the sharp feline eyes of Sugar-Lips Habasi, the Khajiit lounging in her usual chair. Her ears flicked forward as S’en let the door shut behind her. S’en knew how she looked, battered and worse for wear. She didn’t need a looking glass to tell that her lip was swollen and blooming darkly; a throbbing along her cheekbone that she didn’t notice earlier told her the bruise might be one of a few. Habasi let out a low purr as S’en walked toward her with the intention on silently passing the guild’s Mastermind and getting the drink she so sorely needed. 

“This one wonders if you are too quick to cut,” Sugar-Lips said, giving S’en a leveraged look. “It should be kept in S’en’s mind that blades are kept to cut purses. It is best for the guild that other cutting is avoided. This one thinks that maybe S’en would find better work in a different occupation, if that’s…?”

The question hung, poised.

“I’ve left that life behind me,” came S’en’s irritated reply.

“Is that so?” Sugar-Lips’s tail swayed lazily as she cocked her head. Her lilting tone turned flat. “Leave it behind, then.”

S’en scowled, turning on her heel to descend the stairs of the cornerclub. 

Venim had said that his dreams spurred him to violence, all that time ago when they were forced to share passage to Vvardenfell. That was his reasoning for abandoning Redoran and his position as Archmaster, he’d claimed. It would do the House little good if their leader was found to be losing his mind. 

S’en at the time had thought him to be a coward, but in the passing months, as her own sleep had become plagued by the same madness, she had come to sympathize with his actions. _Somewhat._

The stairwell opened into the cornerclub proper, occupied by a smattering of patrons. The brunt of them belonged to the guild, only some that S’en could put a name to but most whom she at least recognized. Among them were a few residents from throughout labor town; either unknowing of the nature of their company or simply too poor to make a worthwhile target for a sticky-fingered thief, comfortable in the protection their own poverty offered. Conversation was shared in a low murmur or harsh whispers, the mood of the room one of people who simply wanted to be left to their drink at the late, late hour — or very early hour, depending on who was asked.

The publican — Bacola, an Imperial whose surname S’en had never bothered to learn — nodded in greeting as she sidled up to the bar and perched on a stool. He poured her a cup of _sujamma_ , knowing her preference enough to have stopped needing to ask. She paid him without comment. S’en contemplated her drink for a moment, watching the dark amber liquid swirl in the redware cup before taking a deep swig, barely tasting the heady spice beneath the burn at the back of her throat. It sent a warmth through her veins, comfortably numbing. Her lip stung from the alcohol, and she pressed her tongue to the split, irritated. 

The muffled sound of a snore drew her gaze to where one of the townsfolk sat slumped over a table, face down, fingers still wrapped around an empty cup. She snorted, turning back to her own drink when something caught her eye.

In the corner, one of the tables was covered nearly end-to-end in books of various sizes and age. A man sat there, flipping through one of the tomes to compare it to the text of another that lay open beside him. Rows of words and letters she still could not read. As though he sensed her staring, the stranger looked up— 

—and S’en found herself once more face-to-face with Drelethyn Venim. 

He looked as startled to see her as she did him. His hair was short now, a close-trimmed beard where his face used to be smooth shaven, ears pierced with a line of small rings. There were other changes, too, but there was no mistaking it was him. Drelethyn flinched, and his gaze suddenly flitted from hers, nervously scanning side to side as though he expected to find an assassin with a blade already poised at his throat. The moment of vulnerability was brief, quickly replaced by the over-confident airs he normally wore, but it did not escape S’en’s noticing. He settled back in his seat then looked at her once more, a brow quirked.

Waiting for her to make a move. 

S’en’s lips parted in a snarl.

“Bacola.” The publican turned his attention to her at the sound of his name. “I’ve got a contract to work out. Make sure no one bothers us.” The last sentence was accompanied by her innocuously sliding a few septims his direction. They disappeared as quickly as they came, and he nodded, returning to polishing the tankard he held. She tossed back the last dredges of her drink, swallowing hard around the burn before she stood walked to the table where Drelethyn sat. 

“Judging by your appearance, I take it you’re faring well here in Balmora,” he said by means of greeting, unapologetically staring at her split lip before his gaze drifted to the other bruises on her face. She ignored the taunt, palms slapping against the wood of the table as she braced herself and glared at him hard.

“What—” she spat, “—do you think you’re doing?” 

“My apologies, I did not realize I needed a writ of permission from you to read in a cornerclub—”

“The dreams, you guar _fetcher_. I don’t care about your stupid books, I am talking about the dreams.”

S’en watched with satisfaction as the smirk fell from his lips — then felt her own momentary pleasure fade as his brow crinkled in confusion.

“The dreams?” he repeated.

“Yes!” she snapped, keeping her voice low. She glanced over her shoulder before slipping into the seat beside him. “Ever since you rambled about the damn things on the boat, I’ve been having them. For _two years._ I haven’t been able to sleep, I’ve felt ill. I just woke up in some alleyway with this,” she gestured to her face, “and no other signs of a fight.”

Drelethyn blinked, then leaned forward. “You think _I’m_ doing this?”

S’en threw up her hands in exasperation. “I don’t know! All I know is that you’re the only one who seems to know anything about any of it!”

Drelethyn groaned, running a hand down his face. “Well there goes that.”

“What?”

“I had a theory that the recipients of the dreams are determined by ancestry. But if you’re having them, that can’t be the case.” He tossed aside the book he’d been nursing, leaning back in his seat to look at the pile of books before him. S’en looked over them as well, then back at him.

“So you don’t know what is causing them,” she said, an accusation more than a question.

“No,” he said, “I know what’s causing them; or who, rather. What I don’t know is how to stop it.”

“Who, then?”

“Dagoth Ur of the missing Sixth House.”

“House Dagoth? I thought that they were—”

“Trapped by the Ghostfence, yes. Apparently he’s found ways to circumvent the Tribunal’s efforts to keep him contained.”

“—Dead. I thought their return was just rumors, and that the fence was to keep in the blight.”

Drelethyn snorted. “If the fence was only to keep in the blight, it’s doing a piss poor job of it.”

The supposed return of the Sixth House had been on the lips of the people of Vvardenfell for a number of years, seemingly more myth than fact in what rumors spread about it. From what S’en had managed to gather the leader of this ‘Sixth House’ had awoken from some kind of long sleep to terrorize the people of Morrowind with a blight that spread like a plague. It was said that the Tribunal had trapped him and the rest of his House on Red Mountain. S’en had never put much weight on the story, assuming it was something either exaggerated or entirely made up for the sake of granting the living gods more adoration than the common person already had for them. Apparently, Drelethyn took the whole thing more seriously than she ever had. Considering who Drelethyn had been until recently, S’en found herself wondering if there was more to it than she or the general public knew.

“Has he said anything specific to you? In the dreams,” he asked. 

“He…?” S’en pursed her lips, considering the details of the dream from earlier tonight, contemplating just how much detail she wanted to impart on a man she certainly didn’t trust, and shook her head. “No. They’re images mostly — feelings, above anything else. Candlelight. The sounds of crying, the tolling of bells. Deep ones. Usually.” Not a lie, but certainly an omission.

“The usual fare then,” he commented.

“And you?” she asked.

Drelethyn regarded her closely, eyes intent as though he were trying to find something in her features. She kept her face passive despite her discomfort.

“Here, look at this.” From a bag that sat beside the foot of his chair, he drew a worn journal, leather-bound. He handed it to her and she opened it carefully, the yellowed, antiqued pages crackling between her fingers. The script was unusual — hand written, clearly, but the symbols were stiff and straight. 

“I can’t read this,” she said. 

“Of course you can’t,” he replied. “It’s Dwemeris.”

She glared at him and did not bother to correct him on why she couldn’t read it — he’d already set her up to humiliate herself, expecting for her to not be able to read what he’d given her. She didn’t need to give him the further satisfaction.

“That’s not the point though,” he said, moving to carefully take the journal from her hand. She let him, folding her arms as he paged through it. “This journal belonged to a Dwemer woman named Cor Istec, a prominent philosopher in her time. This is what Dagoth Ur is speaking to, in my dreams.” He shook the journal he held before him, emphasizing his point.

“...He’s speaking to the book,” S’en repeated, slowly, as though it would perhaps help Drelethyn realized how ridiculous he sounded.

“No, _no_ , not the book. The author. Cor. He’s speaking to Cor. Almost always, she is present in the dreams, speaking with him, though I can never hear what they say. All I ever hear is the song, or his inane ramblings, aside as though someone else were speaking it. This journal is the last proof of Cor’s existence — a relic, if you will — and my assumption is he’s drawn to it, drawn to _me,_ because of that.”

“So? _You_ can read it, right? Why not just see what this is all about? Or just give him the thing and get it over with?”

“I don’t think he wants the journal so much as he’s interested in Cor herself,” he said, shaking his head. “Though I can’t fathom why, other than they may have known each other in some way. In either case, the journal on its own is of little help.”

“So you _can’t_ read it,” S’en pressed. The corners of Drelethyn’s lips ticked downward; irritated that she caught his non-answer, most likely.

“I can… in part _._ ” He said, placing the journal down. “My knowledge of Dwemeris is incomplete. Some words are recognizable — names, mostly of places, though there are some lesser words that share common root with our language — but for the most part its unreadable. As it is to anyone. Knowledge of the Dwemer language has been lost for thousands of years.”

“Pity then,” S’en said. “It looks as though you’ll be suffering from those dreams for the rest of your life, or until someone finally puts you out of your misery in your sleep.” 

“As will you,” Drelethyn harshly reminded her.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Not mine!”

“I have trouble believing that.”

“You insufferable woman—” Drelethyn groaned harshly in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Listen. I have _nothing_ to do with these dreams or with you getting them. The last thing I want is any of this; if you recall, I have _legitimate_ responsibilities that I need to attend to, and the sooner that I can get this whole thing over with the better.”

S’en clicked her tongue and leaned back in her chair, regarding him. “Fine,” she said.

“Fine _what_?” he snapped.

“I’ll believe you. So, we’ve got the ramblings of a dead historian—”

“Philosopher.”

“Whatever. We have that and the notion that Dagoth Ur wants something to do with her. Where do we go from here?”

Drelethyn gave her a quizzical look, eyes searching her face as though trying to find something hidden beneath her dry expression and the dark bruise along her cheekbone.

“You... intend to help me,” he said, uncertainty evident in his voice. S’en scoffed.

“Don’t get me wrong, _muthsera,_ ” she spoke the honorific as a sneer, dry and mocking. “You are insufferable, arrogant, and the only thing you’ve ever done right so far as I’m concerned was burn down the red lantern district. But you are the only person I have met who has had any idea of what might be going on, and I’ll be damned if I let my chance at ridding myself of this plague rest in _your_ hands. Besides—” she cocked her head, “—what other reason would you have for telling me all of this?”

“To convince you that I’m not responsible for your dreams so you don’t, in your words, ‘put me out of my misery in my sleep’,” he said, tone flat. 

S’en paused, as though weighing the validity of his statement in her mind, then shrugged. “Fair.”

“Tell me, what do _I_ get out of letting you accompany me other than the fear of a knife at my throat?”

“Well, first off you can be certain that I won’t be telling anyone that the Archmaster of House Redoran is still alive. Secondly, you’ve got another set of eyes and hands. You came here to hire a lock-pick didn’t you? You’ve had to, if you’re planning on traveling to any Dwemer ruins, which from the sounds of it, you are.”

“That’s not—”

“And,” she interrupted, “I can make sure _you_ don’t kill anyone in your sleep and get arrested for it. It would be embarrassing for everyone to think of you as dead only for it to be uncovered that you’re still alive and are in jail for casual murder. Blackening the House Redoran name with shame and such.” 

Drelethyn leaned back, kissing his teeth irritably as he considered. The silence stretched long between them, and for a moment S’en thought that Drelethyn would say no, leave the cornerclub, and that would be the last she’d see of the Redoran Archmaster for a while in the least. Because while S’en wanted her answers, while she wanted freedom from the sweet, involuntary influences of the dreams, she would _never_ stoop so low as to run after a man or beg anything of anyone. She was done with that. 

“Fine,” he conceded, and S’en had to catch herself before she sighed in relief. “You were right; I _was_ looking to hire a lock-pick anyway, which I’m _assuming_ you can do. But one false move and I won’t hesitate to be rid of you…”

“S’en,” she said.

“S’en.”

The smile that she offered held all the sweetness of rotten fruit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we get into what I consider to be the _actual_ plot.


	18. Balmora, 3E 415

They agreed to meet by the silt strider caravan the next morning. S’en slunk off to wherever she’d come from, and Drelethyn had resigned himself to an entirely sleepless night, waiting for her to inevitably show up in his room with the intention of slitting his throat while he was asleep.

A presumption on his part, as it turned out. Come morning, Drelethyn found himself both wholly intact and without a murder on his hands, rucksack slung heavy over his shoulder as he wandered a sleep-deprived path through the thick of the morning fog to the west end of the city. He paused for a moment as he crossed one of the bridges that spanned where the Odai river cut through the heart of Balmora, watching the fishermen as they readied their shallow long boats for the day’s work. One gave him a polite wave as she noticed him. He returned the gesture before moving on. S’en was there when he arrived at the caravaneer’s tower, leaning against the baked clay brick wall with one foot tucked up and braced against it. Her head was tipped back, eyes closed. She looked down as he drew near and pushed herself off her resting place.

“You showed,” S’en said dryly. She looked exhausted. Drelethyn didn’t comment on it. He certainly could relate.

“I should be the one saying that,” he replied, before looking up the tower stairs. He was grateful to see there was a silt strider already there; waiting for them could take hours, and then he could find himself in a bidding war with another would-be passenger with what they always claimed to be a far more urgent destination. “Did you speak to the caravaneer?” 

S’en shrugged, then shook her head. Drelethyn let out a sound of annoyance, catching sight of S’en’s following glare for only a moment before he began to climb the steps.

“I haven’t because I’ve never _been_ on a silt strider and did not want to hear you complain of the price,” she snapped.

Drelethyn opened his mouth to bicker in return when her words caught up to him.Turning, he looked straight at her. “You’ve _never_ been on a strider.”

“No.”

“ _How?_ ” He was incredulous. Silt striders were the most common form of long-distance travel in Vvardenfell and greater Morrowind alike. Even the most poor of the underclass had, more often than not, found themselves on the back of a strider at least once. And from what little Drelethyn had gathered about S’en and the late Reven Serthi, they had traveled extensively throughout Redoran lands.

“Too easy to track,” was the only explanation she gave before she brushed past him, continuing upwards. He caught up.

As Drelethyn spoke with the caravaneer, S’en’s focus was elsewhere, immediately drawn to the enormous chitinous shell that curved before them. She had seen silt striders from afar, with their long, graceful legs that rose them high above any buildings, had heard the comforting sound their moaning cry throughout the day and night; but she and Reven had always travelled by foot, as he was paranoid of their path being tracked. Up close, the incredible size of the creature was humbling. Cautiously, S’en walked to the edge of the platform and laid her hand upon the carapace. It rumbled beneath her touch as the silt strider made a low sound. 

“Never traveled by silt strider before?” S’en startled and turned to see the caravaneer standing a few paces behind her, his jaw working around a hackle-lo leaf, teeth shiny with the oil. “Nothing to be worried about,” he said, “they’re docile as a sleeping baby. Helps that they can’t think much for themselves.” 

He let out a laugh at that and passed her to board the strider, stepping into the crater where the top of the strider’s shell had been cut away to give place for the passengers to sit and to allow the caravaneer to drive. She watched as the caravaneer pulled at the exposed nerves of the silt strider’s brain; the creature shuddered in response, and swayed as it readjusted its stance. 

Drelethyn walked past S’en, boarding the silt strider and settling himself on the woven reed mat and weathered cushions laid there for passengers. He rested his elbow on the shell-lip and gave S’en an expectant look. 

“Are you coming or have you changed your mind?” he asked. 

S’en gave him a bitter look and cautiously stepped into the shell, ducking beneath the cloth awning that stretched over the back end. The silt strider swayed gently beneath her feet and she quickly sat down, her back rigid. She could feel the giant insect’s breathing beneath her, the gentle thrum of its heartbeat. S’en couldn’t decide if it was comforting or disturbing. The caravaneer busied himself at the helm, as far from where they sat as could be found in the small space — not much privacy, but as much as they would be able to find. Drelethyn seemed unperturbed by it, leaning his back against a cushion and pulling yet another book from the bulging satchel. S’en wondered if books were all he carried with him. 

With a lurch, the silt strider began to move, long strides leading them away from Balmora and out into the open wilderscape. S’en watched as the sprawl of Balmora grew smaller, until it disappeared beneath the haze of the morning fog. The long strides of the silt strider carried them high over the land, the gentle sway of its gait undermining how far each step was taking them. To S’en, it was something akin to flying, and for a moment she found her breath caught in her lungs in wonder. 

“Where did you say we were headed first?” she eventually asked, turning to Drelethyn. 

“Nchuleftingth,” he replied absently. “It’s a Dwemer ruin to the northeast of Molag Mar. Mentioned extensively in the journal, though in what context I have no idea. Figured it’d be a place to start, if any. She talks of two others as well, but neither of them are names that I’ve seen written in any text or catalogue regarding the Dwemer ruins.”

“Which ones?” 

“Nchusal, and then one with a longer name that translates into something akin to ‘sideways garden steam’.” He flushed at that, and cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed. “It’s a rough translation.”

She snorted, then scooted from where she’d been leaning against the side of the shell to settle against the cushions. They were lumpy from extensive use, but S’en didn’t mind. “Are all the ruins like that?” 

“Like what?” he asked.

“With the long difficult names that sound the same.”

“They don’t all…” he trailed off at that, lips pursed as he considered. “Alright, yes, for the most part, they do.”

S’en’s lips curled up in a self-satisfied smirk that was cut short by a yawn.

“How long on the strider?” S’en asked.

“Four hours from here to Suran, then another four to reach Molag Mar,” Drelethyn replied. “We could layover in Suran, but it seemed like that would be a waste of time.”

S’en hummed in response, nodding her agreement before she wiggled further into the cushions, surprisingly comfortable despite their lumps and the coarse weave of the fabric. 

The next few hours were passed in a relative silence, with Drelethyn hunched over his book, occasionally jotting notes on another sheath of paper in short, frenetic bursts, like a man on the edge of a revelation only to lean back and sigh in frustration. Each time S’en’s attention would be drawn back to him to find that he had made no progress in… whatever it is he was trying to uncover from those yellowed pages. 

She had nothing to do, other than sit. That in itself was a novelty. Her life had never been one that resulted in idle hands, and now given the opportunity, she found herself torn between enjoying it for the rare thing it was and being intensely, undeniably bored. She hummed an off-key tune to herself, more rhythm than song, and tapped a beat with her fingers on the lip of the great strider’s shell. It was only as she restarted the tune from the beginning that she realized she was humming the song of the withered Velothi in the Ienethi marketplace from those years ago. 

 

✥

 

They reached Molag Mar in the late afternoon, the high sun just beginning its descent in the sky where it lay hidden beneath the ever-present clouds that hung over the barren ashlands. The settlement was small, a single canton-ziggurat oddly tucked into what generously could be called a bay. To S’en, it seemed strange that the entire city lay within a single building, but Drelethyn explained that there was an open-air market on the top floor courtyard as well as a few free-standing buildings. Apparently, the vast amount of communal space was common among structures built by the Temple. 

S’en was stiff by the time that they disembarked. The past eight hours had passed uneventfully for the most part — a flock of cliff racers had sought to harass the silt strider and its passengers at one point, but had quickly changed their minds when the caravaneer had slung some sort of foul-smelling repellant at them. As Drelethyn finished gathering his things from the strider, S’en walked down the port ramp and took a moment to stretch. She bent over, hooking her hands behind her ankles, and stifled a groan as she felt the bones in her spine pop. 

“We will have to lay low while we’re here,” Drelethyn said lowly as he stepped from the silt strider’s back and onto the solid floor of the caravaneer's dock. “This is still House Redoran territory; there’s no one stationed here who should recognize either of us, but I’m not looking to take any chances.” 

Molag Mar, Drelethyn continued to explain as they walked, was built mainly as a resting place for pilgrims; the holy sites of Mount Kand and Mount Assarnibibi lay north of the settlement, and the ash wastes of the Molag Amur region were—in Drelethyn’s words—known to be ‘as unforgiving as a scorned lover’. Molag Mar allowed pilgrims to purchase the resources they’d need to survive the ash storms as well as be provided protection by either any present House Redoran kinsman stationed here or by one of the Temple’s own Buoyant Armigers. 

“If anyone asks, we’re on our way to Mount Kand ourselves,” Drelethyn told her as they crossed the bridge that spanned the moat surrounding Molag Mar, entering the settlement proper. “That should grant us some freedom from scrutiny.” 

S’en followed Drelethyn up the wide steps to the first tier of the canton, then around the corner to walk to the upper tiers. There were three tiers, Drelethyn explained; the underworks, the waistworks, and the plaza on top, each fulfilling a different purpose.

The top tier of the canton was as Drelethyn described; a wide, clay-walled plaza that contained a mere handful of standing buildings, the largest of which S’en could assume was the Temple considering the large ash pit in front of it that sat littered with offerings of bone, fire petals, and ash yams. A small open air market stood in the middle, the few stalls set out on the street offering various things; resin-lens goggles and face masks to protect travellers against the ash storms; talismans, rosaries, and other Temple paraphernalia; salted dried meats and small sacks of ash yams — rations easily stored in one’s rucksack. 

There was a gathering of bodies near the side of one of the far walls, people crowdedaround something S’en could not see from where she stood. As they drew closer, S’en felt her stomach drop as she realized what it was they were looking at.

Standing nude and in chains or otherwise crowded into too-small iron cages were what could only be slaves. There were perhaps a dozen in total, of a variety of races, from Khajiit to Redguard to even one Dunmer, which came as a surprise. The slavers didn’t often target their own race. He must have been the cause of some unforgivable crime.

S’en began to back away. She felt ill, and felt the sudden need to get as far away as she could from the slave market. Someone jostled her from behind, knocking her forward through the crowd. S’en caught herself with a palm pressed to the ground, and looked up to find herself staring into the dark eyes of a Bosmer slave that sat curled in a cage. The slave was no older than S’en herself, and wore her hair cropped short, dark and disturbingly similar to S’en’s own. She and the slave merely stared at one another for a moment, and S’en was struck with the sickening thought of how easy it would be for her to end up where that girl sat now.

Someone grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to her feet; S’en turned on them, fingers curled into a fist and ready to drive it into the face of whoever dared touch her. Her panic died down when she realized it was Drelethyn, who immediately released her and took a step back, hands raised in a pacifying manner. 

“Just helping,” he says. “There’s a hostel on the west end. We should rest there for the evening and leave early tomorrow.”

S’en followed him in a bit of a daze. In her mind she was still caught by the dark eyes of the Bosmer girl, struck dumb by the desperation and the anger they held. It was a look that S’en used to see in the reflection of the laundry basins in the brothel cellar. 

She felt cold, anxiety and disgust settling deep into her bones.

“How can you be okay with this?” she hissed at Drelethyn, who turned and looked at her in confusion.

“Okay with what?” he asked. 

S’en jabbed her finger in the direction of the slave market.

“Oh,” Drelethyn said, and instead of granting her an answer, he turned around and continued to walk. S’en blinked, stunned by his audacity. She caught up to him.

“How does that not disgust you? Those people are being sold as though their lives are worth _nothing._ ” Her whispering did not distill the anger from her words. “You said this is House Redoran territory. Why did you not change this? Don’t you care? You’re — ”

“I — ” Drelethyn interrupted, turning to face her, “ — am a _dead man._ If you don’t recall, you ‘killed’ me. Yes, this is House Redoran territory, but we only maintain a stronghold here. Molag Mar is under jurisdiction of the Temple. And, if you took a moment to think you would remember that House Redoran doesn’t _have_ slave markets in our cities. I did what I was capable of doing, during my tenure, but I was not about to start a House war with the _Temple itself_ for a weak lot of — ” 

“A weak lot of what? A weak lot of _slaves_?” 

Drelethyn didn’t respond to that. S’en sneered.

“Fuck you,” she spat, and shoved him out of her way by the shoulders with both hands. Enraged, she stalked towards the hostel, uncaring if Drelethyn followed or not.  

S’en stood off to the side, quietly fuming as Drelethyn spoke to the publican and secured a room for the evening—free, as all the rooms offered for pilgrimage were. The publican made to lead them upstairs, and S’en followed. As she drew next to Drelethyn, he ducked his head to speak low.

“There’s only one room available, but it holds two beds,” he said. She felt her nose wrinkle in distaste before she could hide the reaction, but Drelethyn made no comment. It was better than sleeping on the street, in the very least. 

The room, as promised, held two beds. Tossing her pack onto the further, S’en poked the mattress out of curiosity, then sat upon it. It was remarkably more comfortable than the bedroll she was used to sleeping upon, and she had to resist the urge to stretch out and sprawl across the bed for the afternoon.

Drelethyn opened the trunk that sat along the wall with a key the publican had provided; she watched as he shouldered his traveling pack off and, after pulling a small pouch from it and inspecting its contents, stuffed it into the trunk. He turned and gestured for S’en to hand him anything she wanted to store. She picked up her pack and tossed the whole thing at him, snickering when catching it made him fall onto his arse. He made sure to give her a sour look before locking the chest and pocketing the key. 

S’en didn’t particularly feel like talking to him, her anger having done nothing to cool in the passing moments. But Drelethyn was, apparently, willing to pretend the whole exchange had never happened.

“We’ll need to buy supplies,” Drelethyn said as he stood. “Going into the Molag Amur without any is a death sentence. It’s almost a death sentence even with them. The market should be open for a few hours yet.” 

S’en frowned at that. “And you are sure that Nch… that the ruin is here?”

“Nchuleftingth, and yes, I’m certain.” 

“Right then,” S’en said, pushing herself to her feet. In the back of her mind, she hoped that whatever they needed wouldn’t be worth much coin; she only had so much to her name, and already owing Drelethyn for paying for their transportation so far was making her nervous. 


	19. Molag Mar, 3E 415

She followed Drelethyn from the hostel out into the market they had passed earlier. She kept her eyes purposefully pointed away from the courtyard where she knew the slave market to be. It helped, somewhat, but didn’t ease the discomfort entirely. It certainly didn’t ease her foul mood at Drelethyn’s utter lack of concern for the slaves.

The wares of the market stalls were clearly selected with pilgrims and unfortunate travelers in mind. They stopped before one; scarves and cloth face masks to protect one from breathing in the ash lay folded across the table beside cone hats made of woven wicker wheat and chitin. Goggles of varying shapes and sizes hung from the rafters, their resin lenses winking in the sun and sending a sea of colored lights dancing across the stall interior as they swayed in the hot wind. S’en was enchanted by the sight. 

Drelethyn pulled down a pair of goggles, handing them to her. “See if these fit,” he said, before making to sort through the textiles.

She slipped on the goggles, only to find they were too wide for her face. Reaching up, she put them back.

“These may suit you better, _sera_.” S’en looked down to see the merchant holding out a pair of round-lensed goggles in her withered hand. She had a kind smile on her face, the genuine sort that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. S’en was caught off guard by the woman’s kindness. She had never been addressed with the respect of an honorific before; simply meeting a native Dunmer who was friendly to her despite her mixed heritage was a rarity few and far between. She accepted the goggles with a heartfelt thanks that was meant for more than just the help shopping. They were made of corkbulb and chitin, the lenses a deep amber. After fussing with the leather strap some, she found they did, indeed, fit.

“See?” the merchant said, and began to rummage through a basket of scarves that sat beside her. “I’ve lived in Molag Mar for much of my life, but the ash storms haven’t taken my good eye from me yet!”

From the basket she pulled out a scarf of a dull rose color, which she held out. S’en took it, marveling at the soft texture. 

“Strider silk, woven from their cocoons,” the merchant explained. “Good if you don’t want to be scraping ash out from between your teeth.”

The goggles and scarf were, thankfully, of a price that S’en could afford; perhaps steeper than she would have liked, but the merchant’s unexpected kindness had done its work and made her more willing to part with coin than she would have normally. Drelethyn on the other hand haggled his price down a fair amount, and a part of S’en regretted that she had not done the same.

[Expand this section; they need to purchase provisions, water canteens, a large tent, bedrolls maybe, etc.]

“You’re going to want to watch your purse if you’re that easily won over,” Drelethyn commented later, as they dropped their things off in the hostel. “You’ll be out of coin faster than you can blink.”

“Says the man who nearly got chased off by a merchant for how stubborn he was being,” she shot back. 

Drelethyn just shrugged. “I still got a lower price.” He shut the trunk he’d been kneeling before and locked it, pocketing the key. “I’m going to see if I can find someone who we can rent a pack guar from.”

S’en nodded, but didn’t make any move to follow him as he left, giving into her earlier temptation of reclining on the hostel bed. After staring at the ceiling for a few moments, however, she found herself far too restless for any sort of rest, and abandoned the hostel in favor of wandering the marketplace, giving the slave market a wide berth as she continued to roam. There were all sorts in Molag Mar; pilgrims dressed in humble habits clutching plain wooden walking sticks, members of the Redoran guard stationed at the garrison in their proud bonemold armor that S’en had seen so many times before, and then the more unusual, glinting glass armor of the Bouyant Armigers; the warriors and rumored lovers of Vivec, said to be hand-selected by the god himself. S’en wondered if the lust of a living god was really so consuming as to have that many lovers.

Her wandering led her to stand before the Temple, head tilted back as she watched the banners flutter and wave in the wind, decorated with phrases from scripture thickly inked in traditional Temple style. The wooden door swung open suddenly, startling her from her reverie. The priest who had unlatched the door seemed likewise startled by her presence, but made to stand aside, allowing her room to come in. Just as S’en was about to explain that she didn’t mean to come inside, that she was just looking, the priest spoke.

“You are welcome in, my child. The Temple opens its doors to all who seek guidance.”

S’en couldn’t find it in herself to correct him. Cautiously, she walked through the threshold, treading lightly as though fearing she might anger any ancestor ghosts who dwelled here with her presence. Turning to thank the priest, she found that he was already gone, having closed the Temple door without a sound behind her.

The Molag Mar Temple was much like another S’en remembered from long ago, on the single occasion her mother had brought her to one. She remembered her mother kneeling before the shrine of Saint Aralor, an offering of scuttle placed at the foot of the shrine as her mother burned a piece of paper in the bowl there and muttered a feverish, desperate prayer. S’en remembered, because the scuttle that was left there by her mother was the only food they’d had at the time, and the hunger pains had kept her awake through the night. 

The Temple itself was modest, as they all were; built of clay, the furnishings set to accommodate the large, shallow pit in the center where the ashes and bones of ancestors lay among offerings of ash yams and fire flowers. The walls were decorated with tapestries and blackened woodcut carvings depicting the various deeds of the Tribunal and of the Saints. If pressed, S’en would admit she did not know their names; only that of Aralor, whom she later learned was the Saint people would confess their crimes and sins to in hopes of them being forgiven, and that of Saint Veloth, who led the Dunmer to the chosen land of Vvardenfell, back before they were cursed, back when they were still the golden-skinned Chimer. Everyone knew of that story, even the most decrepit of beggars and the poorest of laborers. 

From an open doorway there drifted the sound of a voice, low and almost monotonous. The sound piqued her curiosity, and S’en went to see what was within the room.

There was an assembly of worshippers gathered around an ash pit. A priest read aloud from a book he held, the words strange and incomprehensible, over the low, steady beating of a drum played by another who kneeled near the Temple wall.

“...We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to love you in, a cloak of dirth to cherish. Betrayed by your ancestors when you were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied. A short season of towers, a rundown absolution, and what is this, what is this but fire under your eyelid?”

As the priest read, another Temple worker made rounds to those standing around the ash pit, lighting the bowl of spiced incense each held, the smoke rising aromatic and thick. Each, in turn, took from the bowl they held a pinch of the burning incense and tossed it onto the ash pit, anointing the ancestral bones that lay there with its scent. S’en’s lungs felt heavy with the smell of spice, her limbs heavy and her thoughts muddied. She watched the ritual, seemingly unable to move.

“...SITHISIT is the start of all true Houses, built against stasis and lazy slaves. Turn from your predilections, broken like false maps. Move and move like this...”

As he continued to speak without err or hesitation, the priest lifted his eyes and looked directly at S’en.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of witnessing something she should not, S’en fled from the Temple and back out into the market. The sun had fallen low in the sky, and the shadows drew long with the approaching evening.

S’en’s steps slowed as the feeling of shame faded, leaving her contemplative as she walked through the now quiet market, the stalls abandoned for the evening in favor of food and rest. She wondered what it was about the ritual that had so shaken her to the core. The words of the priest stuck in her mind, circling like a mantra spoken from a broken throat.

_A world for us to love you in, a cloak of dirth to cherish… move and move and move and_ —

She needed a drink.

The hostel wouldn’t be useful in that endeavor. Many of the pilgrimages that the travelers through Molag Mar were on required an oath of sobriety for the duration of the expedition, the hostel-owner had explained, and the hostel acted as a place of relief from temptation. Which was all well and good, but did not help S’en much.

Her wandering eventually led her back to the merchant stall with the kindly old huckster who had sold her the goggles from earlier. The woman was in the midst of packing up her wares for the evening, but looked up as S’en cautiously approached her. S’en was pleasantly surprised to find the woman to be just as cordial as earlier. She pointed S’en in the direction of the Pilgrim’s Rest, the main — rather, only — tavern in Molag Mar, located in the waistworks of the canton, which S’en gathered to mean the interior complex on the level below the open-air courtyard the market stood on. Finding her way there took some meandering — the waistworks she found easily enough, but many of the doors on the interior complex were unmarked, not as though signs had ever helped her much. It was only after giving in and asking a very irate guard for more specific directions that she found her way to the tavern. After that it had been a simple matter of purchasing her _mazte_ and finding a dark corner to sit in and brood. 

Given all the septims in the world, _mazte_ would not be her drink of choice, but it was cheap and burned on the way down, so she wasn’t too particular. In the least it’d numb her thinking well enough, the warmth in her belly doing something to quiet her upset from witnessing the slave market and the unsettled feeling that she had been carrying since visiting the Temple. 

Venim was proving himself to be about what S’en had expected. He could be _worse_ , she supposed; he had treated S’en just about the same as he seemed to treat anyone, but a part of S’en suspected it was a weak respect instilled in him by the fact that she, apparently, had a better chance at successfully killing him than many others. He was company. Not necessarily _good_ company, but he was there.

That thought alone made her heart ache with loneliness. She missed Reven. The passing years hadn’t done much to ease that pain. She could still remember the low timber of his voice, his wry quirk of the lips that never, ever quite reached his eyes. 

S’en sat with her depressed musings for a fair while, twirling her cup and watching the milky drink slosh around the ceramic. As she took another drink, she was suddenly aware of the distinct feeling of being _watched._ Pretending not to notice anything, she put her cup down on the table, resting her chin on her hand as she took note of the other patrons in the room through the corners of her vision.

There were two men sitting at a table, watching her, clearly trying to be evasive about it and failing. They were probably simply displeased to find an _outlander_ in their precious tavern, as wrong as they were about that. It would be far from the first time she’d run into this situation. S’en couldn’t make out their features unless she looked at them directly, but the knowledge of being watched was enough to have her quickly finishing the last of her drink and leaving the Pilgrim’s Rest.

As she made her way out of the waistworks and up the stairs to the plaza, she relaxed gradually, thoughts still muddled beneath the alcohol and leading her back to her lonely malaise she’d fallen into. The plaza was quiet this time of night. She could hear boisterous jeers and shouts coming from within the Redoran stronghold Drelethyn had pointed out earlier as she passed the door — they sounded to be celebrating a night of drinking themselves. S’en imagined that being stationed here with little to do other than guide pilgrims through the inhospitable wasteland would bore even the most disciplined Redoran.

A shout startled her back into awareness, her head snapping up to find herself beside the wall that encircled the slave market. Two men ran toward her, silhouettes in the lantern-lit night. As they drew close, her heart dropped to her stomach as she recognized them as the slavers from the market earlier. She was certain they were who had been eyeing her at the Pilgrim’s Rest. They must have followed her here. She backed up, hands raised instinctively as if to ward them off. 

“Leave me — ” the words died on her tongue as she looked and saw what she’d suspected; the cage that the Bosmer slave had been sitting in earlier, empty. S’en turned to flee, but was only able to take a few steps before a strong grip circled her arm and pulled her back. She struggled against their hold, snarling. “Let me go, I’m not her!”

The grip did not loosen. Another hand caught her free arm. S’en’s gut wrenched as she realized that it did not matter. They didn’t care that she wasn’t the woman they were after. They lost a slave, and sought to replace their missing property. She fit the mold close enough that no one would think twice. 

She should kill them. She _should_ —

S’en ripped one of her arms free of the hand that gripped it with a shout. She lunged at the slaver who still held her and grabbed his face, her fingers splayed wide. Reaching from within herself, she found the pith in him that hummed with life and gripped it. A pale rose glow shone around her hand as she reaped the man’s life force, sinking into her own skin to alight her veins and make her bones sing. He made a strangled sound, but S’en didn’t hear it, nor did she feel the other slaver release her arm and scramble back. Her mind was far from her, lost in the euphoria that swallowed her whole. 

The memory of the horrifying, withered, ashen corpses that lay in her wake at the Llevaros mansion struck her with a clarifying force. She gasped and lost her grip. The slaver fell like a dead weight, unconscious, withered, but perhaps still alive.

A voice from the cages shouted something; a warning, _behind you,_ catching her attention. S’en dodged as the man she’d shaken off reached for her. She leapt at him, sinking her teeth into his throat. Hot blood filled her mouth, metallic and disgusting. The slaver screamed as she tore her teeth from his flesh and spat, her stomach turning at the taste on her tongue. She slammed her foot into his knee, downward, feeling his kneecap buckle; the bone crunched, and he collapsed with a shrill cry. S’en kicked at his head, breaking his nose and rolling him over from the force. He moaned, curling up on his side, hand pressed to his face.

Breathing heavily, S’en lifted a hand and scrubbed at the blood on her lips. She spat again  — on the man who was now crying quietly, clutching at his destroyed knee  —  and turned to look at the slaves that remained in the bonds and cages. They returned her gaze, some wide-eyed- some seemingly impressed, some apathetic, some terrified. The Dunmer slave grinned at her, and something about his crooked smile pulled her from her shocked state. She ran as fast as her feet would take her; far behind, she could hear commotion arise as the guards found the men who she attacked. Who had attacked _her._ She could only hope the slaves would feign ignorance, or that they would at least stutter long enough to give her time to flee.

S’en only stopped running once the hostel came into view. Stumbling, she hid in the cramped space between two buildings, leaning heavily against the wall. Her body shook, ears ringing, the rage still hot in her chest. She felt sick. She wished she had killed them. She should have. Foreign life sang in her blood, hot and intoxicating.

She itched.

The ringing grew louder, her vision blurring as it spun. Through the sound, she could hear voices coming from the rattling of her own bones, a song soaring above a murmured chanting, beneath it the beating of a heart.

_We pledge ourselves to you…_

_Dig a deep hole into the soil…_

_Thudum, thudum._

_Frame-maker, the Scarab…._

_Scrape from it the heart, the blood…_

_A world for us to love you in…_

_Thudum, thudum._

_Our father whom we don’t remember…_

_Move and move like this…_

_Our father whom we have become…_

**_Thudum, thudum._ **

Planting her hand on the wall, S’en doubled over and vomited.

Her stomach heaved until there was nothing left in her, leaving her coughing and gasping for breath as she forced her body to calm itself. She pushed her hair away from her sweat-slicked forehead and leaned her back against the wall, sucking in deep breaths, the night air stinging in her lungs. The ringing in her ears slowly faded. She kept her eyes tightly shut until her shaking eased and she felt steady enough on her feet to not fall over.

When she was sure she wouldn’t retch once more, she pushed herself from the wall and staggered to the hostel. None paid her any attention as she slunk through the main hall and up the stairs to the room Drelethyn had rented them for the night.  

She had hoped to not run into him, hoped that he was downstairs among the pilgrims whose attentions were captured by the lilting voice of the bard who had taken it upon himself to entertain the people in the hostel. Luck was not a willing mistress, however, and she nearly collided into Drelethyn while ascending the stairs. He caught her as she swayed, one hand curled around her upper arm. His eyes widened as he took in the blood on her teeth and her violent shakes. Something about that set her off; with a sneer she wrenched her arm from his grasp, and pushed past him, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“S’en —! ”

She ignored him, walking quickly down the hallway. Her nails had sunk themselves in to the meat of her arms, scratching bright red marks into her skin. 

She itched. 

“S’en!” his voice was closer now, the concern in his tone fading into one of frustration. She turned the corner and yanked the door to their rented room open. An armored foot jammed itself in the opening before she could pull it closed. She jerked the handle a few times before giving up with a yell of frustration and pacing to the other end of the room. The door clicked shut as Drelethyn let himself in, and she could _feel_ him waiting for an explanation.

She didn’t owe him an explanation; she didn’t owe him anything, and told him as much.

“I don’t get to ask you why you disappeared only to show up again shaking and looking like you just _ate_ someone?” he asked.

“I didn’t _fetching_ eat anyone you _n’wah_ ,” she said. 

Drelethyn just continued to look at her.

“What!?” she snapped. “Stop looking at me like that!” She shoved at him, hard enough to cause him to stumble back. “ _Stop_ _looking_ at me!” 

“S’en, you need to calm down,” Drelethyn said. In response, she shoved him again, harder this time. “S’en—!” 

And again, and again, her shoves turning to blows as her frustration mounted. Drelethyn let himself be bullied until his back hit the wall before he let out a harsh breath. S’en shrieked as she was suddenly knocked off balance and forcibly turned around. Her arm twisted, elbow shoved into the small of her back as her hand was forced up toward her shoulder blade. She immediately rose to her toes to try to ease the pain in her shoulder; a few attempts at grabbing at Drelethyn behind her with her free hand proved that she was in a position where she couldn’t reach him. 

“S’en, you need to breathe,” Drelethyn said, his voice low as he spoke into her ear. She turned her head, making to bite at him; he turned her wrist slightly and her attempt was immediately aborted as the pain flared. She gasped, head falling back onto his shoulder as her back arched to escape the pain. It angered her further, how calm he seemed, as though he were mocking her for her emotion.

“ _Breathe,_ ” he ordered. 

Her nostrils flared as she angrily sucked in a breath and let it out. And again. And again. Between the throbbing in her shoulder and the rise and fall of Drelethyn’s chest against her back, she slowed her own breaths. Her rage died down, and in its place grew shame. She shifted, and felt Drelethyn’s fingers twitch around her wrist; he had eased the torque, but hadn’t released her arm. 

“Let me go,” she muttered. 

There was a moment’s hesitation before Drelethyn released her. She pulled away and immediately massaged her aching shoulder, rotating it to ensure there was no lasting damage. She heard Drelethyn take a seat on one of the beds behind her. It frustrated her, how easily he’d been able to get the upper hand. A brutal reminder that the now-former Archmaster was rumored to be one of the most skilled warriors in all Morrowind, with or without a sword in hand.

_Because you can’t. Kill me, that is,_ he had once said to her, so long ago. For not the first time, she wondered if that had been spoken from a place of truth and not one of extortion.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Drelethyn gently asked.

S’en continued to nurse her shoulder, allowing the silence between them to stretch uncomfortably long before speaking quietly.

“The slavers from this afternoon jumped me,” she said. “Their Bosmer slave got out and they wanted an easy replacement. I fit the description well enough that they’d still be able to make a profit from whoever they were going to sell her to.”

Drelethyn’s expression was complicated and unreadable. S’en held his gaze as he looked intently at her, as though he’d be able to find whatever answers he was looking for in her face. S’en didn’t care. The eyes that had infuriated her so much just moments ago drew no ire. She just wanted the dry, sweet embrace of _khefer_ , but there was none to be had.

“Did you leave them alive?” Drelethyn asked after a long moment.

“One of them is at least,” she replied. She wasn’t sure about the one she’d reaped life from.

“Were you seen by any of the guard?”

“I don’t know. But the people in the market, the… the slaves. They saw.” 

Drelethyn pursed his lips, then swore under his breath. “We need to leave.”

S’en didn’t argue with him as they gathered their equipment, silently and quickly. She put on the ash goggles she’d purchased and wrapped the scarf to cover her mouth and nose; with her hood drawn up, it was about as concealed as she could hope to be. 

Drelethyn waited at the top of the stairs as S’en crept down to see if there was anyone awake to witness their departure; the publican was, but as he disappeared into one of the store rooms S’en ushered Drelethyn down and the two left the hostel. 

They descended the tiers of Molag Mar quickly and struck out into the pitch dark night of the ashlands. With a hand on her shoulder, Drelethyn bade S’en pause, and she waited as he disappeared toward the silt strider port. He returned shortly, gripping the lead of a pack guar who trundled behind him. 

“Is this the one you rented?” She asked as she let him take the few things she’d been traveling with and strap it to the guar. 

“He offered to discuss prices in the morning, but was preoccupied with a game of _ketch,_ ” Drelethyn replied. 

“So you’re stealing the guar.”

“I intend to return the guar and pay him eventually. So no. Besides, it’s not my fault we’re fleeing in the middle of the night.”

S’en bristled at that. “It is _not_ mine!” she snapped.

“I never said it was.” Drelethyn gave her a peculiarly sympathetic look before mounting the guar and clicking his tongue, setting it trundling down the ashen path.


	20. Molag Amur Region, 3E 415

Hours after night had turned to day in the Molag Amur, Drelethyn decided that the wasteland well and truly lived up to its reputation as a miserable place that only the pious dare traverse and where the foolhardy go to die. The cynical side of him would consider the pious and the foolhardy to be one and the same, ignoring the part of himself that was raised in the cradle of the Temple’s teachings and chastised him for such callous thoughts. Admittedly, his entire mood was blackened by a fatigue rooted in the very few hours of sleep he’d been able to get the past nights.

The Molag Amur region was inhospitable at best. Dunes of ashen sand stretched as far as the eye could see. Rivers of lava flowed lazily, red-hot, steam rising from natural vents where the heat lay trapped underground. Bone-white petrified trees jutted from the grey landscape; the scraggly, twisted trama root, their dark reaching arms laden with plump thorns, and the ashen-leafed, red-blossoming fire fern the only living flora that grew in the Molag Mar’s embrace, if one didn’t consider the lichens that clung to the stony sides of the ash mires, laying mere inches above the tar that hissed and bubbled in the bellies of the mires. In the distance, a long line of tall, jagged dark stone crags marked the path of the _foyada_ Nadanat, one of the many smooth-stoned channels carved out by the ancient lava flows from Red Mountain. If one were to traverse the natural path formed by the volcanic rock, it would lead them to the very heart of Red Mountain itself. Drelethyn supposed it was just as well they would only be traveling through the _foyada_ s for a short distance; the ash storms were bad in the Molag Amur this time of year. Undoubtedly they’d be all that much worse on the volcano itself.

The ash storm had been a near-constant presence, vacillating between mild breezes to savage winds that they were forced to take shelter from, lest their skin be shorn and cut from the dirt and ash kicked up by the brutal tempest. Progress was slow. The guar, for its part, seemed to be the least bothered of them, content to trundle along heedless of the cruel weather. 

S’en had wandered ahead and was now crouched at the side of the faint road they followed, curiously inspecting a fire fern that grew at the root of a large trama bush. The red fire petals were an unexpected flare of violent color among the unchanging warm grey of the ashlands. They were lovely, she decided, and wondered what alchemic properties they might have. She’d been slacking on her practice, and missed the herb-craft. She looked back at where Drelethyn walked alongside the trundling guar.

“We should name him,” she said. The weight of the storm had lifted enough that they were making fair progress, the ash drifting lazily from the sky in light flurries. It would be beautiful, in a way, if Drelethyn weren’t tensely waiting for the howling winds to return, chasing them back into whatever rock divot or hole they could find. 

“Name the guar?” Drelethyn asked. 

S’en hummed an affirmation, plucking a number of the fiery blossoms from the plant. From one of the pouches that hung at her hip she retrieved a slip of rolled waxed paper; with deft fingers she carefully folded the petals away within the paper and tucked them away. Perhaps she would be able to learn of their use from an alchemist or a priest at whatever town they found themselves at next. 

“It is going to be accompanying us for a while yet. You may be satisfied to call it ‘the guar’, but I feel as though we should at least give it some sort of name considering you stole it from its rightful owner,” S’en said, rising from her crouch and falling into step beside him once more.

“I rented it,” he protested.

She gave him a wry smile. “You stole the guar, Venim. Denial won’t change that.”

“Very well, if you are so intent on the guar having a name, you can be the one to name it.”

S’en pursed her lips, considering. 

“Auro,” she said after a moment.

“Auro?”

“It’s what came to mind,” she said with a shrug.

“It seems a bit dignified to bestow upon a pack guar.”

“Well, if you wanted to name it ‘scales’ or something you should have done so when you had the chance.”

“I was satisfied with simply calling it ‘the guar’.”

“That is because you are a boring man with no imagination.” 

An obvious tease, but Drelethyn found his ego bruised nonetheless. He did a poor job of hiding it, and S’en snickered as he sulked, before switching the topic.

“How long do you suppose this break in the weather will last?” She asked, looking up at the still-pink ashen sky.

“With our luck? A few hours at most.” 

The break in the storm was nice for a change — she’d had her fill of hiding crouched in whatever shelter they could find as they escaped the storm, listening to the howling wind in a stubborn silence. 

The time passed slowly, their pace steady as they continued to walk through the ash wastes, the idle silence leaving S’en to her own thoughts, which was a blessing and a curse in equal parts. Their journey through the Molag Amur ashlands left S’en with a feeling of bittersweet nostalgia. She continued to find herself thinking back on the times she’d traveled with Reven through the ashland plateaus on the mainland, of their time spent together beneath the stars on the clearer nights, of comfortable conversation and the familiarity of a welcome presence at her side as a rented pack guar trundled along beside them. The similarity of now and then left S’en too aware of what was missing, and her heart ached with longing for the lover she’d lost all those years ago. The rush of emotion was sudden and overwhelming. Drelethyn gave her a questioning look as she wiped at her eyes.

“Ash,” she lied weakly.

Drelethyn didn’t comment on the fact that she was wearing ash goggles for that very reason as she adjusted them once more and continued walking. S’en regarded the landscape, mostly to avoid looking at Drelethyn as she wrestled her emotions down. In the distance, a large, jagged mountain rose above the crags that lined the _foyada_ s.

“Which is that?” S’en asked, recalling that Drelethyn had mentioned two mountains in the region that were pilgrimage sites. Drelethyn looked to where she was pointing.

“That’s Mount Kand,” he answered.

“It’s a holy site, right? What happened there?”

“According to Temple scripture, Mount Kand is where Vivec defeated three daedra in a battle of wit,” Drelethyn said. Supposedly. He, in his growing cynicism, wondered if any of the stories of the Tribunal were true. If they were powerful and benevolent as the Temple would have one believe, he wouldn’t be here on Vvardenfell, desperately looking for a cure to the dreams in the journal of a long dead philosopher.

“That’s it?” S’en asked.

“What?”

“All he did was outwit three daedra? Thats why this is a holy site?”

“Have _you_ ever outwitted a daedra?” Drelethyn asked defensively. 

“No. But it still seems self-rewarding for something that didn’t even _help_ people,” S’en said, blithely unimpressed.

Habit had him opening his mouth, chastisement on the top of his tongue for S’en’s faithless, blasphemous comment. But the words died before he spoke them, impulse replaced by his own growing doubt. 

She had a point. Vivec had — supposedly — been responsible a number of acts that benefited the people of Morrowind. Merely outwitting three daedra seemed unimportant and almost anticlimactic in comparison. Drelethyn wondered if it wasn’t simply a tale the Temple created in order to give the mountain some arbitrary importance.

“It’s not a tale I’m familiar with,” he said finally. “There may be more to it than I’m remembering.”

His diplomatic reply earned a derisive snort from S’en.

 

✥

 

The wind whistled against the rock walls of the _foyada_ as the ash storm raged. It was dark, the ash clogging the air so thickly that Drelethyn would not see his hand if he stretched his arm before him. The lightning strikes illuminating the landscape were all they had to guide them, the paper lantern hanging from the _namon_ banner-post fastened to the guar’s flank doing little to pierce the storm’s fury.

They stumbled along, Drelethyn with one hand tangled in the guar’s lead and the other wrapped tightly around S’en’s waist as they all clung together and fought against the wind that chafed their skin and sought to blow them away. 

Lightning flashed again, painting the landscape a violent red. In the heartbeat between the light and the sound, Drelethyn spotted the huge form of a shed silt strider shell ahead of them, a shallow gap between the shell-lip and the ground they could use to hide beneath it. The land fell dark again as the deep drum of thunder shook the ground.

“Over there!” Drelethyn shouted above the noise, his voice hoarse from breathing in the ash. 

Blind, they stumbled in the direction he led them. S’en swore as she tripped over Drelethyn’s feet when he changed trajectory, her nails digging into his arm through the fabric of his shirt. The ground before the exoskeleton was loose gravel, rocks giving out from under Drelethyn’s feet. With a shout, he pitched forward, pulling S’en with him. They tumbled down the slope. They came to a stop beneath the shell, where the ground leveled out once more, harsh gravel giving way to soft silt, Drelethyn’s arm pinned beneath S’en’s back and his leg hooked over hers. S’en sat up and shoved his leg off, coughing in the dust their fall had kicked up. Drelethyn let out a loud groan, lifting the arm she had landed on to massage where a rock had dug harshly into it. That’d bloom into a lovely bruise, he was sure. Her back probably would have one to match, if the bonemold armor he wore had anything to say about it.

The guar had navigated the loose slope far better than either of them and settled down near the entrance, apparently more interested in rest than anything else. Drelethyn scoffed at the creature.

“This is a bad one. How long until this passes do you think?” S’en asked, her voice quiet beneath the anger of the ash storm. He looked up from where he still lay to see S’en looking up at the dome of the shell, her hair tousled and face lit softly by the dying lantern light. Far away, lightning struck, breaking the sky in its brilliance, the light shining through the semi-translucent shell and giving them a brief view of the surrounding ash wastes before it all fell dark again.

“I can’t say.” He sat up, crossing his legs and resting his wrists on his knees. “It could pass by morning, or we could be trapped here for days.”

“ _N’chow._ ” The curse was hissed from between her teeth, bitter. S’en moved to sit against the curve of the shell, as far as she could away from him. He ignored the spark of irritation that lit in him in favor of taking in their surroundings.

The cavern created by the shell could barely be called that; more of a glorified divot, really, as shallow as it was. There was enough space that they wouldn’t have to huddle together to stay out of the ash storm, and the guar had space to curl up near the entrance without smothering them, but there wasn’t much beyond that.

There was dry brush in the cave, their pale branches jutting from the cool, ashen silt. Rising to his feet, Drelethyn set to gathering tinder; originally with the intention of snapping off twigs to use but, as the first tug uprooted the entire brush, he ended up pulling the each from the ground one by one and piling them in the center of their shelter. There was the sound of scuffling, and Drelethyn looked up to see S’en watching him quietly. 

“A fire,” he explained. “The ashlands are only going to grow colder as the night goes on.” 

S’en said nothing as Drelethyn pulled a knife from his boot and stood, reaching up to the roof of the shell above them. With a forceful stab, he buried his knife into the shell. He yanked it back out and worked the knife back into the cut, widening it so he could properly saw at the shell. With effort, he managed to cut a small hole in the roof of the shell for the fire smoke to escape through. Sheathing the knife and tucking it back in his boot, he knelt before the tinder. He stretched out a hand, calling to it the fire that practice had made him familiar with. In a short moment the tinder was smoldering and caught alight, their chitin shelter now cast in a warm glow.

“You use fire magic,” S’en said. “I thought House Redoran had laws against magic use.”

“It’s not outlawed, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, digging through his pack as he searched for the metal canister he could use to boil water for the afore-promised tea. “But yes, it is… discouraged outside of Temple practices. The House values self-reliance and capability. Magic is seen as a crutch.”

“What else can you do?”

“Not much, really. Destruction had always been the school I was drawn to, and even then it’s mostly just fire.”

“But you know of other magics?”

The demanding tone made him pause, and he looked up to see S’en staring at him intently. By the furrow of her brow and the firelight in her eyes he would almost think she was mad at him, but he hadn’t _done_ anything for that to be the case.

“What are you getting at?” he said finally.

S’en opened her mouth as though to respond, then bit her lip, and shook her head, expression frustrated. “It’s nothing.”

They sat in silence for a breadth, the fire crackling between them. Outside the hidden sun had begun to fall, the landscape pitch dark as the ash storm raged on. 

Drelethyn opened his mouth, then closed it, teeth clacking with the force. As he rubbed at his jaw, he marveled at how S’en always seemed to achieve the impossible and leave him completely at a loss for words. S’en herself had turned her attention to the silt strider shell, running her hands curiously over the smooth walls and peering at the faint, dead veins that could be seen through the milky exoskeleton. Lightning struck once more, the ash-tinted illumination giving a similar red glow as one could see through the skin of their fingertips when held up to a fire.

The water boiling saved him from having to respond. He took the cup S’en handed him, placing it beside his own as he divided the ground trama root blend and poured the water over. S’en accepted hers with a quiet thanks, seemingly lost in thought as she sipped the bitter, spicy drink.

“Think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?” she asked. 

Drelethyn snorted. “Not worried about yourself?”

“Your dreams seem to be worse than mine. More frequent too.”

Drelethyn took a deep drink from his cup, brow furrowed and expression contemplative as he held the tea on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

“I’ve had them for longer than you,” Drelethyn said, propping his chin on his hand, elbow resting on a knee. “They get worse the longer you have them. Breaks down your resistance to the call overtime, until you become a mindless, brainwashed puppet of House Dagoth. Ask any dreamers who are that far-gone and they’ll say they’ve been enlightened.” 

S’en shuddered. “Well that’s _lovely_ ,” she said, sarcastic.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Drelethyn said. “After you get to that point you start changing, physically. Don’t ask me how, I have no idea. From what I’ve gathered, you turn into these… _creatures_ , with long trumpet-faces and no discernible facial features left. They look like something from a nightmare, if the guy I’d met up with at that cornerclub was telling the truth. He called them Heartwights; said he’d seen one when he’d gotten lost in a storm and took shelter in a cave that the Sixth House had settled in. Said he was lucky to get out with his life. His description was more detailed than mine, clearly.” 

“So, we need to figure this out or we’re doomed _._ ”

“Pretty much,” he agreed. “Why else do you think I’d be so eager to be out in this saints-damned ash waste? If I’m going to turn into that thing one way or another, might as well be in a way that I can keep my dignity and try to _stop_ it.” 

“Well, I’m certainly glad I came along then,” S’en admitted, shuddering again as she thought of what Drelethyn had described. “I don’t want that to happen.” 

“You and me both.” 

They finished their tea in silence, both lost in their own introspection and worries. Eventually, they laid out their bedrolls and settled for the night. As Drelethyn lay on his back, arms tucked beneath his head, listening to the eerie whistling of the wind against the exoskeleton they hid beneath, the expression on S’en’s features when she spoke of her encounter with the slavers in Molag Mar stuck in his thoughts. He would think that to be capable of stealing someone’s very life from their bones would be a power that would make one feel like a god. But the haunted look in her eyes was one he could not shake.

 

✥

 

_Shadows circled in ash. Incense in shaking hands, shaking voices in broken throats._

**_WE PLEDGE OURSELVES TO YOU, THE FRAME-MAKER, THE SCARAB: A WORLD TO LOVE YOU IN, A CLOAK OF DIRTH TO CHERISH._ **

_Warmth._ **_Alive._ ** _Cradled in the bed of ash, it called to her, beckoning her to it. Benevolence. Love. Rage. Her hand shook as she reached out to it. Long fingers wrapped around her own, a hand at the small of her back, pulling her into the dance. A moving shadow. The suggestion of a smile. Iridescent wings and ebony limbs._

**_MOVE AND MOVE LIKE THIS._ **

_Blood on her hands, turning from red to black, hardening on her skin and trailing up her arms, turning her, her flesh and bone, to this ebony._

_Blackness. A sound._

**_THUDUM, THUDUM._ **

_Surrounding. Without, within, about. Which is which, which came first, who is guilty and who is not? What can be known if knowing is nowhere to be found? Change through stasis, stasis through Change. One then none, and then is Not._

_A voice. A sound._

**_Who was the one to commit the first crime? Was it the justly blamed, or was it the executioner who slew the innocent accused?_ **

**_Dig a deep hole into the soil…_ **

_A hand. A touch._

**_THUDUM, THUDUM._ **

_The feeling of safety, the terror of freedom. His smile against her lips as she kissed him. Warm and wet against her mouth. Warm and wet, the blood on her hands as he crumbled to dust, falling among the bones that rattled beneath the ash._

_She screamed. Screamed until her throat was raw, until she could no more, then continued to nonetheless. Screamed, and there was no sound._

_A golden mask staring from the darkness behind her eyelid, watching, watching._

_Waiting._

**_Our father who we have become…_ **

**_THUDUM, THUD—_ **


	21. Piran, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT - April 26, 2020: This is one of the chapters that have had a major update. Enjoy reading!]

S’en awoke with a jolt.

She flailed, disoriented, the sound from her dream still ringing in her ears. The sound of her own heartbeat, pounding against her chest as she sucked in gasps of air, looking around frantically. Instead of sitting on the ashen floor beneath the silt strider exoskeleton she and Drelethyn had fallen asleep in, she was in the bowels of a deep cavern, sitting upon a hexagonal dias made of dark stone. The walls were lit in an eerie, violent red, cast from clusters of red candles that sat in clusters atop boulders, dripping bloody wax in rivulets that ran down the stone. Strange whispers filled her ears, voices of the dead speaking profane words she couldn’t understand, yet beckoning her to listen, listen. She covered her ears, looking around. Something made of wood was stuck in the ground beside a cluster of candles; an effigy or shrine of sorts, a totem, perhaps, built of crudely carved sticks lashed together, angled and only barely held in place. Pale shapes hung from the totem’s arms, a strange, beetle-like symbol carved from the wood where its face should be. The hanging chunks were flesh, she realized, and S’en immediately distanced herself from it, stumbling back as she stood. Her back hit something. She flinched, whipping around to see a strange fetish statue sitting in a place of honor on the center of the dias. The statue reached her shoulders in height, with a body like an urn, marked with thin, crossing lines pressed into the clay. It had a strange, featureless face, smooth aside from the three eyes it bore and the four horns atop its head, bearing them like a headdress. In the center of the fetish’s chest, an embedded red stone glowed and pulsed with a familiar energy, matching the stones set in each of its three eyes. S’en gave the fetish a wide breadth and took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic rising in her throat, struggling to recall if she had any idea of how she had gotten here.

“So you’ve awoken.”

The voice spoke from behind her, cutting through the whispers, quieting them. She startled, turning as she reached for her weapons. Her daggers were forgotten the moment she laid her eyes on who had spoken.

Whether the being stood before her was mer or monster, she could not say. He appeared to be Dunmer, once. Where his face should be there was instead a gaping hole, from which something akin to a trunk lined with holes, like an instrument, grew. He wore a simple beige robe and a short mantle across his shoulders, decorated with red stones that winked in the candlelight. Though hidden beneath the folds of his robe, the rest of his body seemed relatively undeformed.

_Heartwight._

S’en stood, frozen, her mind and body caught between the will to fight and the instinct to run as fast as she could.

“I bid you wait. You are safe here,” the creature said, raising one bony hand toward her. 

“Where is Drelethyn?” she asked. The words came without thought.

“The Redoran will be joining us shortly. Fear not. You are both kin to us, and we will not harm you.”

“ _Kin?_ ”

“You have been looking for answers, have you not?” he prompted.

S’en opened her mouth, prepared to deliver a biting response, but found herself without words as she considered what the creature had asked. 

“What do you know about any of that? Where am I? Who are you?!” she demanded.

“You are in Piran. I am Dagoth Mulis, of the honorable House Dagoth,” he replied calmly. “And you, S’en of no clan, possess an extraordinary blessing. There is a power within you that connects you to all around you that you do not understand. You can feel it; the ebb and flow of life itself. Am I wrong?”

S’en stood, open-mouthed in shock, staring at Dagoth Mulis. He spoke as if he understood. And there had been that part of S’en, long-nurtured from her fear and her _need_ , that wanted nothing more than someone to understand. A part of her that screamed loudly now, scratching at the walls, hungering for answers, for an end to this madness-driven curiosity.

“…What _is_ it?” she asked, her voice quiet. 

“Creatia.” The Dagoth moved, and S’en immediately made for her daggers again, until she realized he was merely sitting on a nearby rock. “The spark that burns within you, I, and all other mortal life. Raw life energy, if you will. The make and ilk of Lorkhan, given to us so we may live and thrive upon his tomb.” 

“Lorkhan…?” S’en was certain she had never heard the name before, but something about it seemed so _familiar._ Like a long-forgotten memory, tugging at the back of her mind.

“You have never heard of Him,” the Dagoth said. He sounded incredulous. “I am surprised, considering you are one of His few chosen. He is the Frame-Maker, the Scarab, creator of all we are and all that surrounds us. The giver of life and free will.” 

“The Frame-Maker?” S’en suppressed the shaking of her voice, the sense of utter _wrongness_ that had haunted her since her waking having turned to true fear. She needed to leave, find Drelethyn, and get out of here. This man, whoever he was, knew too much, digging into something within her that she wasn’t sure she wanted uncovered.

“Come with me,” Dagoth Mulis gestured for her to follow. “I can show you what I mean.” 

S’en knew, logically, the rational thing to do would be to run. But something she could not place compelled her to follow, something deep in her pith certain that if she did not, she would be passing up her only opportunity to obtain the answers that she so desperately sought. Dagoth Mulis waited patiently as she hesitated, then dropped her hands from where they’d been hovering above her daggers and cautiously followed him from the cavern and through the tunnel-way beyond.

A short walk led them an escarpment, overlooking another cavern that opened below them. Firelight from a lava pool played upon the ceiling and walls, lighting everything with long, distorted shadows. Stalactites hung heavy from the cave ceiling, smooth from the heat condensation.

Sixth House cultists were gathered around a dark pentagonal stone dias identical to the one S’en had awoken upon. On either side of the dias stood stone half-pillars, small shelves carved from them to house smaller replicas of the strange fetish she’d seen earlier. The sudden toll of deep bells rang through the cavern, the sound discordant as it echoed along the stone. Startled, S’en looked over to see a man standing beside a yoke of large bells, a large metal hammer in his hands. It looked heavy as he hefted it and struck again, the toll higher in tone this time.

A cultist stood upon the dias, dressed in black robes embroidered with red thread, tracing out patterns of the tangled stems and thorns of flowers. The Sixth House scarab was stitched across the chest, so similar to House Redoran’s yet not quite. He held a wooden box in both hands. He looked strange in the long shadows, lit from behind and too far for S’en to see clearly. S’en squinted, trying to place what seemed so off about him. Her heart dropped to her stomach in horror as she realized the man had no upper face, a deep hole in place of where his eyes, brow, and nose should be. From the shadows of the cavity a soft red glow emanated. S’en unthinkingly put her hand over her mouth, her other arm hugging herself tightly.

Another man stepped upon the dias to kneel before the faceless cultist. His face was bandaged heavily, only his mouth and chin visible. As S’en watched, the kneeling figure removed the bandages to reveal stark white bone, his eye sockets empty and skull exposed across where his upper face should be. The remaining flesh of his face was burned and scarred at the edges, as though someone had attempted to burn a hole through his skull. Upon the bone of his brow was branded the symbol of the scarab. 

“ _Saints_ …” S’en whispered. She felt sick at the sight. How was this man still alive?

“Your connection to creatia, to Lorkhan, is not one most mortals share,” the Dagoth explained, seemingly unaware — or uncaring — of S’en’s discomfort. “My brethren and I can manipulate creatia, as we were taught by the kinder of the Dwemer, who were in turn taught by Lorkhan himself through one of their own. _Fabrication_ , they called it.”

The standing cultist, the faceless one, transfered the box he held to one hand, and opened it, revealing a stone. It looked to be a chunk of volcanic rock, but it was lit from the inside with a red energy, as though the fire of the mountain still burned at the pith of it. The light flared at the cultist’s touch as he picked it up. Handing off the box to a bystander, the cultist stepped closer to the kneeling man, placing a hand beneath his chin to tilt his face to look upward. Slowly he lowered the stone to the exposed bone of the man’s skull. As the stone made contact, it began to eat away at the bone, red light flaring, carving a hole in the man’s face akin to that of the faceless man. The man kneeling made no sound nor movement. It as though he felt no pain from his face being hollowed.

It occurred to S’en that she was witnessing the creation of a Heartwight. 

“It takes time, diligence, and a forged connection to the will and corpse of Lorkhan to learn the art of Fabrication,” Dagoth Mulis continued, looking down as the cultists helped the new Heartwight stand on shaking legs. “We have found our own ways, through the remnants of Lorkhan’s passion imbued in the very land itself, which we have harvested and learned to exploit. You did not have to build this connection — it is inherent within you. The humans would call you _shezzarine,_ with all the foolish and misguided theories built around such a name. Our master Ur recognized this within you and has sought to help you see, see who you are and what you must do. He has intentions, for you and for Archmaster Venim of Redoran. It is time for the Awakening, S’en of no clan. It is time for _you_.”

S’en took a step back, shaking her head, eyes wide in horror. She couldn’t be. She didn’t want to become a Heartwight, to undergo the profane ritual she had just witnessed. “I’m not… I’m not one of you. I’m _not._ ” 

“But you are,” Mulis said firmly. He took a swift step toward her, one bony hand reaching toward her face. “You will be the _greatest_ of us.” 

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” S’en lifted her hands, unthinking as she latched onto Dagoth Mulis’ life force and _pulled._

The creature hunched over, the light of his life energy rising from his skin to sink beneath S’en’s own. Then, S’en felt something within her was abruptly gripped and _wrenched._ She gasped, immediately breaking the connection as she tried to stop whatever it was. Mulis straightened, his own hands outstretched, not touching her, and yet.

S’en struggled to breathe as she hugged herself and staggered back, as though trying to fend off the violation. She fell to her knees. “Stop! Stop, what are you—”

“If you will not join us now, you will later. But you are too important to be allowed to continue along this path of self-destruction. This will be kept until you are wise enough to understand what it is you wield.” 

“ _Stop!_ ”

S’en cried out as she felt _something_ torn from deep within her. Her hands immediately went to her ribs, searching, probing, but she was untouched. There was no wound. 

She scrambled to stand and blindly rushed Dagoth Mulis. Ramming him with her shoulder, she knocked him clean off his feet. 

S’en ran. 

The tunnel she was in fed into another, and another, the system a red-cast labyrinth. She came upon someone, who turned, a club in his hand and a wild look in his eyes. He had little time to react before S’en kneed him in the sternum and struck the back of his neck. He fell, and S’en kept running, looking for a way out, any way out. 

One passage led to a dead end, leading to a pool of lava. She lingered only long enough to see no other way out before retracing her steps. The tunnel curved past a lava-flow, the bend a blind corner. She slowed, quieting her steps as she peered around the bend. Two figures clad in loincloths were slowly walking, carrying a third clothed between them. The middle figure groaned, head lolling.

_Drelethyn._

With a cry, S’en charged them. One figure turned, revealing himself to have no face at all, only a deep cavern from which a red glow softly emanated.The other, a woman, seemed to be only in the beginning stages, her features still there but unnervingly drawn, grey skin sallow, eyes peering from deep sockets and cheekbones jutting above hollowing cheeks, a talisman with the same strange beetle from the totem around her neck. They dropped Drelethyn once they saw her coming, fumbling for their weapons. S’en managed to reach the faceless man before he could get his dagger in hand, using her momentum to spin and catch him with a kick on the side of his head. The woman struck S’en’s side with a wooden club, knocking her breath from her body. She barely avoided the second swing, throwing herself into a roll and coming to her feet. With distance between them, S’en reached out, seeking out the woman’s life force to take.

Nothing happened. 

S’en froze for a moment in confusion, snapping out of it only fast enough to avoid the woman’s club again. Someone grabbed S’en from behind, one around her neck and the other her waist. S’en struggled as she was lifted from her feet by the faceless man, trying to free herself. 

Suddenly he lost his balance, sending them both falling to the ground. S’en immediately scrambled away. Drelethyn, aware now, had his hands around one of the faceless man’s ankles. S’en watched only long enough to see Drelethyn deliver a hard blow to the man’s temple before she focused on the woman once more. Leaping from her crouch, she caught the woman around the waist, tackling her to the ground. The club flew from her hands. S’en straddled the woman’s waist, swiftly drawing her dagger and slicing her throat with a fluid, practiced movement. The woman’s cry turned to a choking gurgle, her hands flying to her throat, blood bubbling from between her fingers. She slumped, eyes fluttering closed. 

S’en looked over her shoulder to see Drelethyn standing, looking down at the faceless man lying at his feet. His sword was drawn, but whether the man was dead or unconscious S’en could not tell. Nor did she care. She stood, sheathing her dagger, and grabbed Drelethyn’s wrist, dragging him along as she took off running once more. 

S’en looked behind her to see two other Sixth House cultists silently watching them as they fled, making no effort to pursue or stop them. 

There was another bend in the tunnel. Then, far ahead of them, S’en saw a rough wooden mine door embedded in the rock. Another Dunmer stood beside it, wearing the same talisman as the woman from before. As they approached, S’en drew her dagger once more, prepared to fight. But he simply stood aside, watching them with an empty, wild gaze. S’en hesitated until Drelethyn tugged her along, slipping past the wide-eyed Dunmer. 

The door opened to reveal the dry ashlands of the Molag Amur. The wastes were shrouded in a thick fog, pale in the morning light. Two lava pools hissed and bubbled along each side of the path leading to Piran, leaving a small pass between them to walk along. Drelethyn led, S’en following behind him as they ran along the narrow path. They crested a hill and nearly lost their footing on the loose ash as they slid down the other side. Then they were running blindly, with little direction in mind aside from _away._

Only when they were out of breath and it was apparent that they were not being pursued did they stop. S’en braced her hands on her knees, sucking in deep breaths as she tried to ease the burning in her lungs. Beside her, Drelethyn swore emphatically, pacing around, kicking up ash as he vented his fear and frustrations in his own way. But S’en wasn’t paying attention, too caught up in her own thoughts.

Chosen by Lorkhan, a name she had never heard before but _knew_ nonetheless. _Shezzarine_. Fabrication. Creatia. How Dagoth Mulis had somehow known her name, had looked at her and unearthed something within her that she wasn’t prepared to face. 

Suddenly, as they were seemingly out of the danger, the terror she’d been keeping at bay welled up and overwhelmed her. A sob ripped its way out of her throat, and she sat down heavily, tucking her face into her knees as she shook. She heard Drelethyn’s muttered tirade abruptly stop, followed by the shuffling of footsteps that told her Drelethyn had kneeled down beside her. 

“S’en?” His voice was gentle.

S’en shook her head, taking deep breaths as she tried to gain control of herself. 

Drelethyn sat beside her, not making to touch her but staying nonetheless, patient as S’en struggled to quell her sobs. She heard him take an unsteady breath of his own. Eventually she calmed enough to raise her head, wiping her eyes roughly with her palms. She hadn’t stopped shaking.

“Looks like the Sixth House ended up coming to us in the end,” Drelethyn commented, running a hand through his hair. He looked as frightened as S’en felt. “What… happened to you?”

“I, I met—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed thickly. “I woke up and saw a… something, _someone_ , standing over me. He talked to me. He somehow knew everything, he knew my _name_ , Drelethyn, he knew about the life stealing and that I was _confused_ and that I don’t know what it even is and—”

“Hey,” Drelethyn interrupted, “Hey. Breathe.”

S’en realized that she had been working herself up, speaking quickly and hysterically. Panic welled up as a thought crossed her mind. _Dagoth Mulis had taken… was it…?_ She dug beneath the folds of her scarf, fingers scrambling until one hooked on the chain of Reven’s talisman. Pulling on it, she unearthed the talisman from beneath her clothes, and let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the stone in her palm. Warm, familiar. _Alive_. Pulsing red, like the eyes of the strange idol she’d awoken beside. Like blood.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“His name was Dagoth Mulis,” she said, her voice steadier now. “My ability, he said I was using something called Fabrication. That it wasn’t magic, but was instead creatia. They can use it, too. He said the Sixth House were taught by the Dwemer. He said… that I was chosen. That my ability to steal life didn’t come naturally to people like it does me. That Dagoth Ur wanted me… that he wanted _us_ to do something. That I was blessed by the Frame-Maker.” S’en twisted to face Drelethyn, her eyes wide and afraid as she looked Drelethyn in the eye. “Who _is_ Lorkhan?”

Drelethyn’s brow was furrowed, his lip curled as he struggled to process everything S’en just said. His gaze flicked down to the talisman in S’en’s palm, then back to her face. “ _Lorkhan?_ ” he said, finally. 

“The… Dagoth kept mentioning him.”

“Just when I thought this whole damned thing couldn’t get weirder.” Drelethyn let out a harsh breath, scrubbing his hand over his face and turning to look out over the ashen landscape. “Lorkhan is… _was_ , the god of… well, a lot of things; Change, Creation, Mortality. He’s known as the Scarab and the Frame-Maker, like this Dagoth Mulis said. The Scarab of House Redoran? That’s Lorkhan’s symbol. Predates the House, far as I know.

“Lorkhan created all of mortal life. All of _us._ Considering what this _Fabrication_ of yours is capable of, and that it uses ‘creatia’, I guess a connection to Lorkhan would be convincing. That… doesn’t make any sense though.” The last phrase was muttered into the palm of his hand, his expression contemplative.

“Why?” S’en asked.

“Lorkhan is dead. Dead as a god can get, which apparently is pretty damned dead. He was killed in retribution for creating Mundus — the mortal plane of existence. The other Et’Ada decided they didn’t like the world they’d helped him make. Said he tricked them. He was ripped to pieces and his Heart—” Drelethyn turned, pointing toward the distant but ever-looming presence of Red Mountain, visible from all parts of Vvardenfell, “—fell there, and created the volcano as we know it. If… what Dagoth Mulis said holds any water, and Lorkhan _did_ single you out somehow, we’d have to assume he’s not as dead as we all thought.”

S’en looked at Drelethyn for a long moment before putting her face in her hands and letting out a long screech of utter frustration and anger.

Why? Why _her_ , of all people this could be happening to? Why, despite this Dagoth Mulis being faceless and clearly insane did this all sound _right_? _What did any of this even mean_?

She kept her hands in her head a long moment after she fell silent, a storm of emotion in her chest, pulling her in every direction. She pushed her hair away from her face, gripping it with fists pressed to her skull. She looked at Drelethyn.

“Are _you_ okay?” she asked. 

He remained quiet for a long moment before answering. “I’m no worse off than I was before. Was only awake long enough to figure out that we were in a Sixth House base and have you save my sorry arse. Thanks, by the way. For not leaving me behind.”

S’en squeezed her eyes shut again.

“He did something to me,” she said, quietly, almost a whisper. She pulled her hands from her hair to look at her hands, dirt beneath her ragged nails, ash and soot blackening the skin of her palms. “I don’t know what. Took… _something._ I can’t feel the pulse of life anymore. I can’t use it. I tried, on the people attacking us.”

She didn’t know how to feel about it. She felt violated, despite the fact that what had been taken from her was a horrifying, terrible addiction that she had been enslaved to. One that took lives. One that would have made her a monster, if she wasn’t already.

S’en drew her knees up to her chest, hiding her face in them. Drelethyn said nothing. His presence was a comfort. S’en suspected that Drelethyn wasn’t telling the whole story on his end of things, but she didn’t care. She had more to worry about now.

Something within S’en realized that this was far bigger than just the Dreams and the journal of that Dwemer philosopher. She was certain Drelethyn had realized this too.

_They_ had more to worry about now.

“Hey.” Drelethyn’s hesitant touch to her shoulder got her to look at him. He stood and offered his hand. “I think I recognize where we are. Our camp should be nearby.” 

S’en let out a short, weak laugh, accepting Drelethyn’s hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

“Really? You managed to track where we were going through that damned ash storm?” she asked. She released his hand once she was standing, once more wiping the last of the tears pricking her eyes.

“I spent a handful of years as a Redoran guard accompanying pilgrims through this region to Mount Kand and Assarnibibi. Got pretty good at keeping an eye on landmarks, even in ash storms.” 

It took a bit of wandering and a false lead, but eventually they found their camp. The guar, Auro, was sleeping where they had left him, seemingly unaware they had ever been gone. Drelethyn shook the guar awake as S’en slung her rucksack onto one shoulder, tied up their bedrolls, and gathered them up in her arms. She let Drelethyn take the bedrolls and her pack before putting on her ash goggles and scarf. Drelethyn lashed their stuff to the pack guar who gurgled happily to itself.

“Wish we could all be this damn happy,” Drelethyn said, scowling at the guar. He finished tying up the knot, then turned to S’en, patting the guar’s back with his hand. “Here.”

“Ride on the guar?” She asked, her brow furrowed.

“Yeah.” He grinned. “It’s fun if you’ve never done it before. Give it a try.”

S’en gave him a peculiar look, but let him boost her up onto the guar’s back. She straddled it nervously, hands planted on its back, gripping the blanket and feeling as though she were going to fall off any moment.

“Hold onto these,” Drelethyn said, plucking at some of the ropes slung across the guar, holding the luggage atop it. She gripped them. Drelethyn pulled his goggles down around his eyes and took up the guar’s lead. S’en immediately tensed as the guar began to walk.

She found herself relaxing after a bit, growing used to the swaying and learning to shift her weight with it. Drelethyn was right about it being fun. 

It was a while until S’en realized the gesture had been Drelethyn’s way of trying to help her feel at least marginally better.She wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

 

✥

 

The skies above Ald’ruhn were dark with the promise of a coming ash storm. Not a soul remained in the streets, the people having hid away in their domed clay homes, away from the choking dust and shearing winds. Tivtha herself didn’t want to be out either, but that was the downside to being a courier she supposed. 

She paid the strider caravaneer, who was quick to make himself scarce, heading straight for the nearest corner club or inn to wait the storm out no doubt. Tivtha took a moment, watching the clouds rush by high above despite the still air where she stood, then took off running.

The wide dusty streets of Ald’ruhn all led toward the center of the city, where rested the massive hollowed carapace of Skar, the emperor crab honorably slain by the Redoran centuries ago. Now, with the capital of House Redoran having recently been moved to Ald’ruhn, the shell of the creature housed the manors of the Redoran councilors and the great Council Hall. 

Tivtha bounded up the stairs that led to the door entering Skar. It opened into the cavernous hall, crossed by bridges and catwalks leading to the doors set high up on the walls of the hall, each leading to one of the Councilor’s manors. Construction was still clearly being done on the hall, with the bridges and walkways little more than rope and rough-hewn wood. She quickly sidled by a passing guard and jogged up the bridge to the door that led to the Council Hall. [Expand imagery]

A quick series of questions and directions led her to the office of the Archmaster. Standing before the door, she took a moment to catch her breath, before she raised a hand and knocked.

“Enter,” came a voice from within.

Tivtha had already known to steel her for the sharp glare Archmaster Bolvyn Venim gave anyone who interrupted him at any moment of the day, but it didn’t do much to ease her discomfort. He struck an intimidating figure, clad entirely in sharp ebony armor, his greatsword always at his side. Across the desk from him stood Councilor Athyn Sarethi, fists clenched as he looked at the newcomer. Judging by the tension in the air and Sarethi’s anger, Tivtha guessed they’d been in the midst of some argument. Curse her poor timing.

“I have a message for the Archmaster,” she said, her voice more a squeak than anything. “I— I can come back later, if that’s—”

“That won’t be necessary. Councilor Sarethi and I have concluded this meeting. You may be excused, Councilor,” Bolvyn said, waving Athyn off.

Councilor Sarethi opened his mouth as if to argue, then clenched his teeth and turned sharply on his heel, stalking out of the room. Tivtha watched him go, before the Archmaster impatiently clearing his throat drew her attention back. 

“Well? What is it?” he snapped. 

Her face heated with embarrassment, straightening her back as she faced him. “A letter from _serjo_ Vreth Teldas of Molag Mar, _muthsera_. He said it was urgent and should be for your eyes only.” From her satchel, she drew the letter, unmarred and carefully sealed with a blot of red wax, imprinted with the Redoran scarab. She handed the letter to Bolvyn, who made no move to open it in her presence. “Will you be requiring a letter to be delivered in return?”

“Your services will not be needed,” he said. “Dismiss yourself.”

Tivtha offered a deep _khena_ and left the room in a hurry. 

Bolvyn waited until the sound of the courier’s quick footsteps faded completely before he retrieved a letter knife and broke the seal, unfolding the pages to reveal the scrawled writing within.

 

_Muthsera Archmaster Bolvyn Venim Redoran,_

_A Dunmer man fitting the description you provided to us has been sighted in Molag Mar. He had rented room in the hostel here, and was seemingly traveling with a merish woman of indeterminable race. Following an altercation near the slavers’ market where two men were found injured after having been attacked, a guar herd reported one of his beasts had been stolen. The man and woman have not been sighted since, leading me to believe they had something to do with both incidences and fled into the Molag Amur._

_The storms are bad this time of year. If they are out there, I doubt we’ll be seeing them again._

_—Redoran Vreth Teldas_

 

Bolvyn swore.

It would seem his suspicion was correct. Drelethyn _was_ alive. Despite the ignorant assumptions of Teldas, Bolvyn knew his cousin to be more than capable than navigating the ashlands, the Vvardenfelli hick he was. 

Drelethyn being alive undermined Bolvyn’s position as Archmaster. Even now, Drelethyn had his loyalists, as Sarethi’s presence in his office moments before did so well to remind him. This was without the greater question of why, in the first place, would Drelethyn falsify his own assassination.

_And who is this woman?_

“Well played, cousin,” he muttered to himself. He turned to the crackling hearth and tossed the letter in, watching as it blackened and turned to ash.

If Drelethyn wanted the people to think him dead, then Bolvyn was willing to lend him a hand in that.


	22. Nchuleftingth, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Wasten Coridale and want to support the story? Recommend it to a friend!

Two days after their experience in Piran, Drelethyn was still looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Sixth House cultists lurking among the ash dunes behind them. S’en was still just as on edge as he was. She hadn’t once spoken again about what she’d told him after they fled Piran. Drelethyn hadn’t brought it up, nor had he ever told her of what he’d experienced there. The memories of it were difficult to grasp. He remembered pleasure, sweet carnage, some kind of uncertain longing and vague lust that he could not place. He remembered Dagoth Ur’s voice, beckoning. There was a vague sense of stumbling through the ashlands, of there being a heavy weight on his back, of being greeted by friends and freed of his burden. 

He’d wondered now if he hadn’t carried S’en there in his altered state of mind. He didn’t tell her this, out of both a quiet shame and the sense that with S’en already as rightfully frightened as she was, it wouldn’t be of any help to give her _less_ reason to trust him.

Something had changed after Piran. Whether it was the shared fear of Dagoth Ur’s influence over them, or simply a growing familiarity with one another, it couldn’t be said. Perhaps a bit of both. The past nights had them agreeing to sleep in shifts, only for the night to be spent mostly awake anyhow, either in silence or in quiet conversation. This night was worse than the others. Drelethyn had shaken S’en awake when it seemed she was in the throes of a dream; he himself had awoken but a few hours later to find himself standing, S’en gripping him by the wrists with a frightened expression on her face. 

Neither of them went back to sleep. S’en sat hunched before the fire, worn blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she watched the fire. She could feel the shadows beneath her eyes, and suppressed a yawn, annoyed at her own body’s efforts to remind her of her exhaustion. She was _aware_ , thank you very much.

Drelethyn was clearly doing no better. He sat nearby, posture hunched, idly scratching away in one of his personal notebooks, occasionally looking up before returning his attention to the page. He was left-handed, she realized. S’en hadn’t noticed that before. 

Given time, S’en’s curiosity won out, and she scooted closer to Drelethyn to peer over his arm, keeping the blanket tight around her to ward off the night’s chill.

“What are you doing?” she asked, squinting.

“Mmh?” Drelethyn lifted his hand away, revealing a sketch of ashland flora. S’en looked up and realized he’d been drawing a nearby cluster of trama root and fire fern that grew near the root of a bone-white petrified tree, rendered in charcoal that stained his fingers. The likeliness was unrefined, but was still remarkable in her opinion.

“I didn’t know you drew,” S’en said, looking down at the page. Carefully, she reached over, pressing the cover down further so she had an unobscured view. “This is really good. Where did you learn to do this?”

“Nights like this,” Drelethyn responded. “I spent a lot of time out in the ash wastes when I was in the Redoran Guard.”

“You escorted pilgrims through the Molag Amur,” S’en recalled.

“Mmhmm. And I spent time up in the Northern Ashlands during the House War in 243. There wasn’t a lot to do during stake-outs, and more often than not we’d be sitting in our camps awaiting orders with nothing else to do. I had a stint on the night-watch.” Drelethyn regarded his own drawing, then shrugged. “We weren’t supposed to talk. It could give away our position, so it was something to pass the time. I wouldn’t call myself an artist by any means.” 

“Can I try?” S’en asked, moving so they nearly sat shoulder-to-shoulder, shamelessly stealing some of his body heat. 

Drelethyn looked surprised, but didn’t hesitate to hand over the little book and the stick of charcoal he held. “Sure, have at it.” 

S’en took the charcoal, tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she focused and tried to sketch the plants on the page beside the one Drelethyn had drawn upon. 

“Lighten your touch,” Drelethyn suggested. “Charcoal is brittle — draw heavily and you could snap it. Sketching softly gives you more control.”

S’en tried to do as Drelethyn instructed, making a frustrated sound. The charcoal was unwieldly and difficult to work with. She was certain that she had done a better job getting it on her hands and smearing it about the page than she had using it to draw properly. Eventually, her patience wore thin, and she held out the book in front of them so they could see her work side-by-side with Drelethyn’s own and the actual plants growing nearby. Next to Drelethyn’s sketch, her own rendition looked as though a child could have drawn it, lines shaky and rough-hewn. It resembled someone’s bad hair day more than the trama root it was supposed to be. S’en couldn’t help but laugh at how bad hers looked in comparison.

“You make this look so easy,” S’en said, giving Drelethyn his book and charcoal back.

“It’s just practice. I had a lot of time on my hands,” Drelethyn said with a smile.

To the east, the horizon was beginning to show the first signs of lightening. S’en let out a weary sigh at the sight; despite her lack of desire to fall asleep and into the embrace of the disturbing dreams that plagued her unconscious thoughts, she was possibly less eager to stand and begin the traveling the day held, exhausted as she was. Drelethyn seemed about as enthused at the prospect as she was, letting out a deep breath of his own through his nose. He reached up, scrubbing at his face with both hands before dropping them back in his lap.

“You have charcoal on your face,” S’en said. Taking her own unblemished hand, she licked her thumb and rubbed at the black smear across Drelethyn’s forehead. 

“I doubt that’s going to help,” Drelethyn said, nose crinkled. “Considering the amount of ash we have on us at this point.”

S’en looked down at herself. She hadn’t really thought about it, but now that Drelethyn mentioned it, she felt distinctly _grimy_. Not that she was ever one who had the coin to visit the sort of extravagant bath-houses the Archmaster undoubtedly had access to, but her hair being dry and ash-ridden to the point of nearly standing on its own wasn’t an experience she could say she’s had before.

“I wish you hadn’t pointed that out,” she bemoaned. 

Drelethyn chuckled. He put aside his notebook and charcoal, then groaned as he stood, his own blanket still around his shoulders as he stretched and shook out his legs. S’en stayed where she was, content to watch as Drelethyn wandered over to the trama root he’d been drawing and used a knife from his boot to cut a handful of the large thorns from the plant. Retrieving a stone from the ground, he sat back down in front of a moderately flat boulder nearby and began to grind up the root beneath the rock. Familiar with his routine, S’en took it upon herself to dig up the travel kettle he kept in his pack and fill it sparingly with water from one of the many canteens they brought along, placing it on the fire.

“Thanks,” Drelethyn said. S’en hummed and settled back into her previous spot, shivering as her standing had let the warmth escape from beneath her blanket cocoon.

“How near to Nchuleftingth are we?” S’en said. She had a quiet moment of pride at how she barely stumbled over the pronunciation of the Dwemer ruin’s name.

“We should be reaching it today,” Drelethyn said. “We’re close by, if the directions I got from that scout in Molag Mar were of any good.”

S’en assumed that he’d met with said scout while she’d been off wandering on her own. The slavers came to mind. She shivered again, one that had nothing to do with the cold.

Drelethyn handed her her redware cup filled with tea, then placed his own aside to lay out his blanket on the ground between them. He unrolled a piece of paper atop it, revealing a marked up map of Vvardenfell. A dark red line was inked from where Molag Mar was labeled, weaving an unsteady path through the ashlands before ending at a location marked by a slashing ‘X’. S’en assumed that’s where Nchuleftingth lay.

“We’re here-ish,” Drelethyn said, tapping a bend in the path not far from where Nchuleftingth was marked down. “I think. Either way, if we continue following this path east, it will curve around to where Nchuleftingth lies. If we hit the _foyada_ Ashur-Dan, we’ll know we went too far _._ ” 

“I hope that we’ll find some answers there,” S’en said honestly. “I’d like to be able to sleep.” 

Drelethyn sighed, clearly agreeing. He took a sip of his tea before taking the scrib jerky S’en offered to him. The sky was a rosy pink now, the sun having broken over the distant ridges of the volcanic hills and beginning to warm the land. S’en hoped she’d be more willing to move once she warmed up some.

“So what _exactly_ are we looking for?” S’en asked.

“I’m not sure,” Drelethyn admitted, frowning. “Cor refers to it by name, and this is one of the few ruins that has had its name preserved with any certainty by scholars.”

“So we’re wandering about aimlessly,” S’en said.

Drelethyn nodded. “Unfortunately. We might be there for a while.”

“I wish we had something more solid to go off,” she mumbled into her tea. “Guess that’s the best we can ask for, looking for clues from an old journal some lady wrote ages ago.”

“Anything easier and you’d almost think we were having good luck for once,” Drelethyn tried. It earned a tired laugh from S’en. His own smile was exhausted and short-lived, and their meal was finished in a comfortable silence as the day continued to break.

 

✥

 

S’en was riding Auro again. They’d been walking in turns, and despite her best efforts to hide it, Drelethyn could tell that she was nearly falling asleep, slumped over with her arms crossed atop the guar’s head.

“We should be close,” Drelethyn said, scrutinizing his map once more before casting his gaze out over the barren landscape. He frowned. They should be seeing it by now.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, they rounded a high ash dune, revealing looming towers and metal spires, tucked against a rock formation, ancient and unmistakably Dwemer in design. Drelethyn let out a quiet sigh of relief, and tugged on Auro’s lead, turning the guar to follow as he approached the ruin.

“Here?” S’en asked, looking up at the ruins of Nchuleftingth skeptically, seemingly more awake than she was moments ago. Despite the frequency with which these towers jutted from Vvardenfell’s landscape, she could never shake her unease at the sight of them. Beside her, Drelethyn flipped carefully through the worn journal.

“This is Nchuleftingth,” he affirmed. Regardless of his own sure words, he scrutinized the page to ascertain before nodding.

S’en huffed quietly. She slid from Auro’s back, taking a moment to gain her balance before she stepped back to allow Drelethyn to lash the guar to a nearby fallen log. They wandered about the ruin site, weaving between where the towers rose from the ash. Drelethyn paused, one eye shut as he traced some sort of pattern through the air.

“What are you doing?” S’en asked, leaning a hip against a low wall, arms crossed. 

“Mapping,” Drelethyn explained vaguely. He continued for a moment longer before dropping his hand and looking at S’en properly. “Parts of these ruins are blocked off due to disrepair and age. I wanted to try to get a sense of how large the ruin is supposed to be in comparison to what we’re going to be able to access.”

S’en raised her brows before she pushed off the wall to follow Drelethyn as he half-walked, half-slid down the slope of the ash dune.

The only visible entrance into the ruin were a pair of metal doors, shaped together in a perfect circle, a short metal walkway leading up to them. When Drelethyn tried the doors, they opened with a strange inward-breath sound, as though the ruin itself were desperately gasping for air. S’en bit her lip.

“Apparently Nchuleftingth has a large underground section that’s become buried under ashfall,” Drelethyn commented as they walked down the steps from the entrance. The air inside was stale and silted; S’en didn’t find Drelethyn’s claim difficult to believe as she pulled her facemask up to cover her mouth and nose. “It was accessible in part in the Second Era but was lost when an improper excavation caused it to collapse.”

The first room opened into a cavern. Far below lay a lake of boiling, hissing lava. An ancient, sturdy bridge spanned the distance, leading into further into the ruin, where rough-hewn cave wall gave way to careful geometry of pounded metal and engraved pipework. S’en hesitated for a moment, feeling the heat of the molten rock against her face, before she jogged to catch up with Drelethyn, staying far away from the guard rail.

“What was this place for, do you think?” S’en asked as they left the bridge behind and passed one of the many unknown machines that hissed steam and whirred, still working at some unknown purpose all these years later.

“Not sure. Could have been a workshop, or just a living space.”

She had never been in a Dwemer ruin before. The space they were in was warm and dim, a large room of metal walls, with pipes snaking across the ceiling and the hissing of steam echoing from down the hall. A strange lantern buzzed and flickered from where it was mounted on the wall, a shining filament casting a golden light from within it. S’en walked closer to the lantern, looking at it in curiosity, trying to find the flame in it and failing to do so.

“How are these burning?” S’en wondered aloud.

“It’s artificial light,” Drelethyn commented from behind her. “No one’s quite figured out exactly _how_ it works, or how it’s running after the Dwemer vanished. Their utter mastery of craft vanished along with them.”

“You certainly know a lot about the Dwemer.” 

“I have a passing interest in antiquity,” Drelethyn said, flipping through the journal again. “I’d fancy myself a historian had I ever the time for it, which I didn’t.” 

Looking around the drab metal room, dust in its corners, at the pipes that snaked along the walls, puffing and steaming in their labor, S’en didn’t see the appeal. The entire place gave her a haunting sense of unease that she couldn’t seem to shake.

S’en followed as Drelethyn made his way to a door that lay on the left end of the room. He tested it with caution, wary of any magical traps; there were none, and it cracked open with a creak beneath his touch. He pushed the door open fully, revealing a large room. Metal bookshelves lined the walls and tables sat undisturbed in the center, set as though to accommodate those who sought to study. 

There didn’t seem to be much left. The shelves were empty of any books, holding only dust and the occasional large cog that proved to be incredibly heavy when S’en tried picking one up. The end of the room opened into a strange, domed room that held a massive machine which S’en could not discern the use of. Apparently it was of interest to Drelethyn, who approached it with a low whistle. 

“Would you look at that,” he said, every word laced with awe. He walked up to the machine, inspecting it closely.

“What is it?”

“This is a telescope. It functions similarly to a spyglass from what I’ve read, but was used to observe and chart the stars with an accuracy that we can only envy.” He peered into the eyepiece and let out a disappointed sigh. “It seems age has gotten to this one though. The lenses are ruined.” 

S’en looked back out into the library. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything here.”

“Apparently Cor was considered a controversial figure in her time. From the little information on her I’ve been able to find, it seems she was executed for her theories, though I couldn’t tell you what those may have been. Any writings of hers that were left were undoubtedly seized and destroyed following her death.” 

“So, what? You think that there’s something hidden in this ruin?”

“ _If_ there is anything here, it would be well-hidden, yes.” 

S’en gave him a flat look.

“ _You_ are the one who insisted coming along,” Drelethyn reminded her. “You’re more than welcome to leave.”

After what had just happened in Piran, they both knew that wasn’t an option anymore, but neither of them were about to admit that aloud.

Drelethyn turned on his heel and began to walk back to the main hall. S’en was quick to follow; the temptation to bite back at his words was strong but when she opened her mouth, she found she had nothing to retaliate with other than truths far too vulnerable for her comfort, and was left begrudgingly holding her tongue.

Across the main room from where they stood lay a hall lined by circular metal doors. S’en opened one, bracing her feet against the floor to get the heavy door to move, and found a small room containing nothing but the bare metal frame of a bed, a single light, and meager space to store one’s personal effects. The room across from it proved to be the same; something about it settled oddly in her stomach. Faced with such mundane proof that these ancient walls were once a place some called home, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Something about it was eerie. Wrong.

The corridor ended in yet another door; this Drelethyn was crouched beside, his ear pressed to the seam between the metal, listening. 

“There’s animunculi in the room just beyond,” Drelethyn whispered as S’en came to crouch next to him. “More than one, I think.”

“Animunculi?” She whispered back.

“Automata,” he clarified. “The scary metal things that go bump in the night and stab you.”

She gave him a scathing look that he missed entirely, his attention already focused on the lock. S’en stood and pushed him aside with her shoulder. 

“Move out of the way,” she said, retrieving a lockpick and probe from the satchel at her hip. The lock was made quick work of; S’en may have been one of the worst pickpockets the Thieves Guild had to offer—her hands shook too much, no matter how she sought to calm their tremors—but she knew her way around a lock. 

Drelethyn had his sword in hand by the time she’d put her pick away. She drew her daggers from their sheaths and fell into place behind him, prepared for the coming conflict. Hand braced on the door, Drelethyn checked over his shoulder to ensure she was prepared before he pushed, the door opening with the loud groan of metal that hadn’t been moved in far too long. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Drelethyn barely had time to side-step the animunculus as it launched itself at him. S’en jerked back as it flew through the doorway and passed her, falling to the ground and skidding to a stop a short distance away, a trail of sparks lighting from where its legs hit the metal floor. The animunculus resembled an oversized spider, coming up to about her knees in height. That was the only observation she had the chance to make before it was scuttling towards her at a startling speed. She ignored Drelethyn’s shout and waited, holding still until just the moment before it lifted a razor-sharp tarsus and made to strike. At the flash of metal she feinted. Rolling to the side, she dug her dagger into one of the exposed joints, grimacing at the shriek of the metal grinding against her ebony blade. S’en tried to pull her dagger from the animunculus to find that it was wedged soundly within its gears, the spider’s legs thrashing as she jerked on the hilt. The dagger came free, and with it the metal leg, clanging against the floor as it tumbled off. Switching her grip on the hilt, S’en raised the dagger above her head and rammed it straight into the seam in the metal plating along the animunculus’ back. It shuddered, then collapsed. 

There was a loud metal shrieking sound. S’en turned to see Drelethyn with his foot on another fallen animunculus, yanking his sword from where it was embedded in the metal. A green, noxious gas sprayed from the the broken automata. He coughed and stepped back, a hand lifted to cover his mouth and nose as he waved the gas away with the other as he walked through the now open door, with S’en following. 

The room beyond the doorway was large, but was filled with nothing but machinery that spun, hummed, and clicked, still working away. Two of the machines lined a large vat in the center; S’en, curious, looked at the lid but could not find a way to unseal it and see what may be inside. 

“It’s a dead end,” she heard Drelethyn say. Looking up, she saw him staring at the wall, brow crinkled in frustration.

“Perhaps this is all there is to the ruin?” she offered.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Drelethyn said, turning his attention to the three spinning machines nestled in alcoves on one side of the room. “There are structures in this area above ground that indicated there was more to this wing _on this level._ There shouldn’t _be_ a dead end.”

Shrugging, S’en walked along the other edge, idly dragging her fingers along the wall as she went, tracing the Dwemeri letters carved into the piping there. Drelethyn was muttering to himself lowly, though S’en wasn’t paying attention to what he said, more taken in by looking at the strange architecture and stranger machines. What was their purpose? How did they work? How was it, that after thousands of years, these ruins were still running? The machines were made of metal, surely they required some maintenance like armor or weaponry do.

Her fingers caught on something, just for a moment. Pausing, she ran her hand back over the wall, stilling when she felt it again. The smallest of divots in the wall, no wider than a hair. She let her fingers follow it, finding not a traveling crack as she had expected but a perfectly straight line. Frowning, S’en used her other hand to feel further down the wall – just within reach of her arm span, there was another seam.

A hidden door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day early update!


	23. Nchuleftingth, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like WC? Recommend it to a friend! c:  
> (And thanks to those who already have!)
> 
>  

“Drelethyn, come look at this,” S’en said, beckoning with a jerk of her chin. 

“What is it?” Drelethyn near-jogged to her side. In favor of speaking, S’en merely reached out and caught his wrist, guiding his hand to feel the seam. 

“I think there’s a door hidden here,” she said, as she watched him trace the perfectly straight line with his finger. She tapped her own on where the other seam lay before stepping back, hands on her hips. “Looks as though you were right about there being more to here than what it seems.”

“So the question now is how we open it.” Turning, Drelethyn looked over the room once more, before circling the vat in the center and crouching down next to the pipe attached to its base. He traced a line across the floor then up the wall, finger in the air as he squinted one eye shut.

“What are you doing?” S’en asked, bending to look over his shoulder.

“Hold on,” he said, before pressing his ear to the floor. S’en gave him a look, mildly amused by how ridiculous he looked and confused more than that. She gave him space as he awkwardly crab-walked a few steps, then pressed his ear to the floor yet again, fist to her lips as she suppressed a laugh. Eventually he reached the wall, then stepped back, giving one of the strange machines an intent look. S’en let the silence remain for a moment longer before her patience wore out.

“So now that you’re finished looking like a fool, will you explain what you are doing?” she asked.

“These vats are filled with toxic sludge in most ruins,” Drelethyn explained. “Theory has it they used to be alchemic substances that spoiled somewhere over the first century or so and have just been growing more vile since. What interests me is there seems to be a pipeline running from it—” he pointed to the vat, tracing where the supposed pipeline ran, “—to these.”

The machines, with the only visible cranks in the entire room. 

“So under the presumption that we have to turn one of these to open the door…” 

“We have to make sure we turn the right one,” Drelethyn finished her thought, pointing to a vent that lay nestled in the ceiling that S’en hadn’t noticed, “or we get gassed.”

“Lovely.” 

S’en and Drelethyn stood in silence, both looking over the three machines with their cranks. Presumably, there would be something that made one stand out from the other two, some discernible difference that indicated which crank was the _proper_ crank. Presumably.

“I’m not seeing anything,” Drelethyn said after a long moment. He stepped closer to one of the machines, peering around it to see if there was anything written along the walls or something that would not be noticeable from where he’d be standing. 

To herself, S’en wondered if the Dwemer who once lived here had simply memorized the proper switch, or the pattern, or whatever was used to open the door. If they were as smart as Drelethyn’s poetic waxing had claimed them to be, it would make sense to her that it would be the case. Her eyes drifted up to the flickering light that hung above one of the machine alcoves, electricity noisily buzzing through it even now. 

She absently watched it for a moment before something caught her eye. 

“Drelethyn,” she said to get his attention.

“Found something?” he asked, coming to stand beside her once more.

“I’m not sure. Look at this.” She pointed to the light she’d been staring at, and then the other two that hung above the remaining alcoves. “Watch the lights.”

The first two lamps flickered identically, not a single beat off from one another. The third, however, flickered the same for a moment before falling behind by a half-beat, only to resume the same pattern again. It was a small detail, something that S’en wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been staring at the light in the first place.

“Would you look at that,” Drelethyn muttered under his breath. “The Test of Pattern.”

“What?” 

“There’s a scholar who proposed that Dwemer cities were built on a convention of four tests that served as a defense system to keep out all those who weren’t Dwemer. The Test of Pattern is one of these. His research is outdated, but it seems that maybe there’s a measure of validity to it.” 

“Are you certain you’re not a Dwemer historian?”

“Can’t call myself one if I never had time to excavate any ruins. Anyone who does that is a self-important fraud. I’m a hobbyist at best.”

“Alright, _serjo_ not-a-historian-nor-an-artist, I’ll take your word for it.” Privately, S’en thought Drelethyn was underselling himself, but clearly he held some bitterness about the whole matter so she kept the thought to herself.

Drelethyn stepped forward to turn the crank, pausing to look over his shoulder.

“You can go stand near the stairwell, you know. I’m not going to make you suffer with me if we get this wrong,” he said.

S’en stood her ground, saying nothing in return. Partly out of pride, partly out of the feeling that she shouldn’t leave him to risk facing poison gas alone when he’s acting on _her_ hunch. Perhaps she’d be able to drag him out of the way if she was wrong and they set off the trap.

Drelethyn’s hand rested on the crank without moving as he hesitated. Then he let out a quiet exhale, and then turned it. 

For a moment, nothing happened, and S’en’s heart jumped to her throat as she looked up at the vents, expecting to see a noxious fog begin to waft from them. 

Instead, a loud groan rang through the room. The wall behind them where the hidden entrance lay split open, shifting and retracting into itself to reveal a short set of stairs leading to a corridor that ended in another closed door.

“It actually worked,” Drelethyn said, quiet and surprised. S’en, for her part, let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 

The door they’d uncovered was unlocked, and opened smoothly compared to the rest, as though it had been oiled recently. 

It opened up into what S’en could only call some sort of mess hall; tables clustered around the corners of the rooms, shelves lining the walls. On one end, two metal oven-hearths sat, the door to one loose on its hinges. The room looked mundane to her, but Drelethyn seemed enthralled.

“Now _this_ is interesting,” he said, looking around as he crossed the room, scrutinizing it with more attention than it seemed to be worth.

“A mess hall is interesting?” S’en asked, following him as he made his way down the corridor across the room. A door lay on each wall of the corridor; Drelethyn opened one to reveal another of those small, tucked away bedchambers, impersonal and holding nothing but an abandoned bed frame. The door across from it held the same, and Drelethyn stepped back, hands on his hips as he regarded the metal frame.

“The fact that there is an entire secondary set of living quarters are hidden behind a Test of Pattern is interesting,” he explained. “If it were a security measure against outsiders, it would make sense if _all_ the living quarters were hidden here, or if this area was designated as a workshop to hide projects they didn’t want non-Dwemer seeing. But that’s not the case.” 

“So the Test of Pattern wasn’t meant to keep out outsiders, it was meant to keep out _other Dwemer,_ ” S’en said.

“It would seem that way.”

S’en looked around her. In a way, it reminded her of the safe houses she and Reven had stayed in throughout Morrowind. But whereas those had been fleeting, easily-abandoned places, this was far more permanent, built to house and hide. “Do you think this was some kind of resistance cell?” she asked.

“It’s possible. It is no secret that in the days before the disappearance of the Dwemer there was conflict between the ruling party and opposition groups who sought to resist what their government was doing, Cor undoubtedly among them. This ruin — or this part of the ruin, rather — might have been one of theirs.”

As they continued through, tracing back to wander down the other corridor that spanned from the mess hall, she imagined what it would have been like, living a life in complete secrecy, hidden from mer who sought to persecute you by nothing more than a wall. It couldn’t have been easy; whoever lived here must have truly believed in whatever cause they were working for. She supposed it wouldn’t have been much different than her own lifestyle, when she had worked as a freelance assassin. S’en could sympathize with Cor in that way. She knew all to well what it was like to live while hiding from the law.

Heat radiated from beneath as they crossed the corridor, the floor a mere grate separating them from the free-flowing lava below them. It made S’en nervous, and she quickened her step.

The corridor turned to the left and opened up into another room; this one seemingly a workshop as Drelethyn had speculated upon there being down here earlier.On the far wall, three boilers sat side-by-side, hissing and churning. In one corner, a mechanic’s hammer sat propped up against the side of a short metal stool, the table beside it littered with cogs and metal bits and bobs of what purpose she had no clue. S’en was no scholar of Dwemer studies as Drelethyn clearly was but so vehemently denied being, but even she could appreciate the wonder of finding piece of Dwemer history seemingly undisturbed by looters as she wandered about the room.

“Would you look at that.” At the sound of his voice, S’en looked over to see that Drelethyn had drawn a stool over to the side of a large metal cabinet and was peering over the top of it. He pulled something down, blowing an absurd amount of dust off whatever he held. “Looks like we found something.”

“What?” S’en asked, coming to stand near as he stepped down from the stool and sat atop it.

“A _book_ ,” he said triumphantly, holding up an ancient tome, pages yellowed, spine cracked and dry.

S’en sat on her haunches as Drelethyn carefully eased open the cover of the book.

“Huh,” he said, surprised. “This is written in Aldmeris, not Dwemeris.”

“Which means?”

“That I can read _…_ ” his words trailed off as he looked down at the first page, blank aside from a title, written with familiar letters and another beneath it, instead printed in the hard-styled script S’en could now recognize as being Dwemeris. Abruptly, Drelethyn shrugged off his pack, letting it fall heavily to the floor as he quickly pulled open the ties. Retrieving Cor’s journal, he began to flip through it quickly, looking back and forth between the pages until his finger came to rest on a word in the journal. “The Hanging Gardens…” he muttered, sounding awed. 

S’en sat fully as Drelethyn abandoned the stool in favor of the floor, putting the books side by side and turning them so S’en was not looking at them upside-down.

“Remember that one city I said Cor kept mentioning in her journal that I couldn’t translate the name of?” Drelethyn asked, prompting a nod from S’en. “This book, the one in Aldmeris. The title is written there in Dwemeris just beneath, and—” he ran his finger over the Dwemer characters printed beneath the translated script, then pointed out an identical string of letters on a page in Cor’s journal, “—they’re the same. ‘ _The Hanging Gardens of Wasten Coridale’_. This city, Wasten Coridale, _Thumz-Nchulthand_ , is the city Cor had been mentioning so much in these middle passages.”

“So we’ve found another piece to the puzzle,” S’en concluded.

“I’m beginning to think that there’s a trail here, hidden in these passages. It seems too convenient to find a book on Wasten Coridale hidden in a resistance cell in the only other city Cor has mentioned by name other than the ruin I found this journal in originally.” Drelethyn flipped the _Hanging Gardens_ back over so it faced him properly, and flipped to the next page. On the yellowed pages the writing was damaged, passages of text having faded from age, leaving behind only part of what it had said. “Damn it, this must have been written with cheap ink,” he muttered.

“Can you read what’s still there?”

“Let’s see…” Drelethyn cleared his throat, squinting at the faded words that hadn’t vanished entirely. 

     “‘ _…guide…’_ something _, ‘…led with foot-flames for the town-center where lay dead the quadrangular gardens…_

_...asked the foundations and chains and vessels their naming places..._

_...why they did not use solid sound to teach escape from the Earth Bones nor nourished them with frozen flames..._

_...the word I shall have once written of, this "art" our small—’_ no, wait, _‘—lesser cousins speak of when their admirable ignorance…’”_

Drelethyn paused, the rest page too damaged to read. He flipped to the next. It likewise was mostly unreadable, only the conclusion still remaining.

_“’…but neither words nor experience cleanses the essence of the strange and terrible ways of defying our ancestors' transient rules,’”_ he finished.

“So that means… what, exactly?” S’en asked. 

“There’s a note written here at the end,” Drelethyn said. “It’s in Dwemeris. I have no idea what it says.” 

“Isn’t that Cor’s hand?” S’en asked, pointing to the note. “It _is_. Look.”

S’en moved Cor’s journal to once more sit just beside the _Hanging Gardens._ Side-by-side, it was clear that the penmanship was the same, careful script, with just a hint of flourish on certain letters.

“Would you look at that,” Drelethyn said. 

“That explains even less,” S’en stated, frustrated.

“Well, in the very least, this book is a boon for translation,” Drelethyn said, holding up the _Hanging Gardens._ “I’ll be able to figure more of what Cor is saying here, and hopefully get some idea of why Dagoth Ur is pestering me about it. Like you said, another piece to the puzzle. We just need to figure out where it _fits._ ”

Ever since first setting out with S’en to Nchuleftingth, Drelethyn had been pestered with the growing suspicion that Cor was laying out a path for someone, whoever found her journal, to follow, woven between the passages that spoke of seemingly mundane, every-day life. Finding a book with a handwritten note penned by her in this ruin? There was no mistaking. This was not a coincidence.

S’en stood and stretched, working out the kinks in her back. “Guess we should give the rest of the place a once-over in case we missed something else,” she said, reaching around to prod at a muscle knot in her shoulder.

“Probably,” Drelethyn conceded with a sigh. “Shame we don’t have more time. I’d’ve liked to give this ruin a _proper_ look.”

“So you could call yourself a _proper_ historian?” S’en teased. Drelethyn barked out a laugh.

“In another life maybe—” the thought was cut short as he abruptly lapsed into silence, head turned toward the door. There, in the hall beyond, the sound of heavy, clunking footsteps grew closer and closer.

Drelethyn swore, shoving the books into his pack. S’en had drawn her daggers and stood before him, body tense, poised to react. Her certainty vanished the moment the source of the footsteps rounded the bend in the hall.

A massive automata, twice S’en’s height at least, lumbered into view. [Describe appearance more] Slowly, oh so slowly, it turned its head, fixating the black-pit eyes in its metal mask on them.

“Oh _b’vek_ ,” Drelethyn said.

The automata charged. Drelethyn grabbed his pack and bolted out of the way, looking back to see S’en drop into a roll, barely avoiding the massive blade that served as one of the automata’s hands.

“What is this thing?!” S’en shouted.

“I don’t—S’en, _move_!” Drelethyn shouted as the automata reared back. From it burst a cloud of boiling steam. Having heeded his warning, S’en was already moving, sprinting to the far end of the room. The centurion made to follow. Drelethyn swore. His palm grew hot as he summoned his fire from beneath his skin, flames licking his fingers. He cast the fire burst at the centurion, hitting it on the side of its head. 

It certainly got the automata’s attention. Perhaps a bit too well; Drelethyn had only a breath to draw his sword and messily parry the swing of the automata’s own. Drelethyn’s blade was nearly knocked from his hand by the force of the automata’s swing, and his arm flared with pain as it protested. He abandoned the effort in favor of dodging the following attack, blindly trying to put space between him and the centurion. This brought him to stand next to S’en, who braced herself, fingers tight around her dagger hilts.

The centurion lumbered their way. It was huge, and strong, but not the fastest, Drelethyn noted. If they could draw its aim, they could dodge in opposite directions and make a run for it. He glanced at S’en, and she nodded, apparently having come to the same conclusion.

The automata drew close, and raised its sword.

“Now!” S’en shouted. Drelethyn threw himself to the side, feeling the air rush past him as the centurions blade missed the both of them— 

—and cut straight into the boilers.

The boiler exploded, a violent rupture of steam and scorching air that threw Drelethyn across the room, rolling with the force of it. Something heavy _clanged_ as it hit the ground beside him. He groaned, pushing himself up on his forearms. His nose throbbed, his upper lip wet. He reached up to touch it, his hand coming away red. Broken, probably. He looked up. The automata’s head, blown off and partially melted, stared back at him from where it lay on the floor.

Pushing himself to his feet, he squinted in the steam-laden room.

“S’en, are you there?” he called. She groaned as an answer, and he made his way over to where her voice had come from. She was sitting when he reached her, head cradled in her hands.

“ _Ow_ ,” S’en said emphatically. She stood, eyes pinched shut in pain before she opened them, blinking in the steam. She looked down at what remained of the automata, blown to bits and strewn across the room.

“Well that didn’t work how I thought it would,” Drelethyn commented.

“You’re kidding,” she said dryly. “I think its arm whacked my head. Stubborn _fetcher_ got in one last hit.”

Drelethyn chuckled at her humor, before looking up at the ceiling. 

“We should get out of here. These ruins can be structurally—” he was interrupted by a loud rumbling sound, the ground quaking violently beneath their feet. A deafening _bang_ came from somewhere down the hall as a pipe burst. 

“—unstable,” he finished lamely, as Nchuleftingth began to fall apart around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They survived!


	24. Nchuleftingth, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Wasten Coridale? Drop a kudos if you haven't, and leave a comment below to let me know, even if it's very short! Comments are always appreciated.
> 
>  
> 
> [My dear friend Cain did a beautiful illustration of a scene from this chapter. ❤](https://bakurama.tumblr.com/post/187655807514/birthday-gift-for-ghartokpadhome-from-her-fanfic)

They ran. 

S’en followed Drelethyn blindly, praying to whoever the hell was listening that the man remembered the way out of here. The ruin shook around them as the sound of another pipe bursting from pressure rattled through the hall. 

They sprinted through the mess hall and up the stairs that had led them to the hidden section of the ruin. S’en ducked with a shout as an electric light above one of the crank-machines overheated and exploded, hot glass falling to the hall floor. She had trouble keeping her footing with how violently the floor quaked, threatening to toss her one way or the other. Her heart pounded in her chest, but the sound was drowned out by those of the falling ruin.

Drelethyn led them through another hall. He paused for a brief moment at a juncture, swearing as he looked one way then the other. He took the left corridor, and S’en ran behind, hoping that he was right about where they were going. 

Another junction, and S’en realized that she had lost sight of Drelethyn in the steam cloud of a nearby leaking pipeline. She stopped, blood running cold as she looked around wildly, trying to find him or a way out.

“S’en!” Drelethyn’s voice came, to her right, and she immediately bolted in the direction, nearly crying with relief when she saw the bridge near the entrance and Drelethyn standing on the other end of it.

Then a horrible cracking sound engulfed the room. 

“S’en, _look out!_ ”

They watched in horror as a massive stalactite broke away from the ceiling of the cave, plummeting straight into the center of the bridge. With a cacophony of sound the bridge shrieked and crumbled, the middle breadth of it breaking apart and falling into the lava, leaving only the very ends on either side intact.

S’en stood on the edge of the broken bridge, eyes wide at the heated, molten lava that pooled far beneath her. 

The gap was too far for her to vault. She’d never make it.

“S’en!” Her eyes snapped up at the cry of her name. Drelethyn stood on the other end of the bridge. His hand tightly gripped the guard rail to brace himself as he leaned over the distance, his other hand stretched out toward her. Her brow furrowed in disbelief as she realized what he intended.

“Are you insane!?” She shouted above the loud hiss of steam and the quaking walls around them. There was the sound of another explosion from further in the ruin, nearby enough to be almost deafening.

“You have to trust me!” Drelethyn shouted back. “I will catch you!” 

She hesitated. The room shook, nearly knocking her off-balance in its tremors. She caught herself on the rail.

“S’en! _Trust me_!”

Perhaps it was merely the firelight from the lava far below that she was seeing, but when she looked up at Drelethyn, his eyes held an intensity and determination that settled something deep in her chest.

Taking a few steps back to give herself a running start, S’en sprinted forward and leapt.

It was as though time slowed around them. She could feel the heat below her. She could feel her heart thrumming frantically in her chest even as her breath was suspended. She could see it in her mind’s eye; their fingertips brushing, not quite far enough to grip, and then her falling to a searing, burning death.

Then time resumed, and Drelethyn’s grip caught tight and sure around her wrist. Her breath left her lungs in a desperate gasp. She grabbed onto the broken ledge with her other hand, and between their combined efforts she was pulled to safety. There was no time; as soon as her feet were on solid ground once more they were running, up the corridor steps and around the corner, toward the round port door that led out of the ruin. 

Drelethyn did not slow as they reached the door, instead slamming into it shoulder-first. The metal gave, the door flying open. He lost his balance and she tripped over him. They tumbled out of the threshold and down the small hill that served as a path up to the ruin, coming to a rest in a cloud of ash with S’en lying awkwardly atop of him. She groaned and rolled off, rubbing at the ache in her ribs where the bonemold of his armor had dug into her side. 

From within the ruin, they heard a thundering BOOM. The ground shook beneath them, and one of the towers shuddered and fell, sending up a massive plume of ash before the tremors finally settled.

They lay there for a while, side by side, simply breathing. S’en couldn’t believe she was still alive. She had a feeling that Drelethyn felt the same for himself.

Then, abruptly, Drelethyn started laughing. S’en looked at him as though he’d completely lost his mind, but let out a quiet chuckle of her own as she stood. She extended a hand to help Drelethyn up; a stark parallel to what had just transpired. Drelethyn noticed this — a few thoughtful breaths passed between them before he gripped her hand and let her haul him to his feet.

“We’re alive,” he said, as though marveling the fact. 

“We are.”

“And we got the book,” Drelethyn said with a wide grin.

S’en had completely forgotten about the book. She was sure that it was obvious on her face, open-mouthed and caught off guard. Shaking her head, she allowed a soft smile at Drelethyn’s enthusiasm and reached out to give him a shove. He laughed again.

 

✥

 

“Ow, ow, ow, _ow_.”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” S’en chided as she washed the blood away from Drelethyn’s split and crooked nose with a cloth soaked in some of the sujamma Drelethyn had apparently been carrying among his things. “I cut off your finger and _this_ is what you cry about?”

Drelethyn grimaced, then groaned as the expression jostled his nose.

“My finger wasn’t on my _face,_ ” he complained. 

S’en sat back on her haunches and raised a brow at him. 

“It’s _different,_ ” he insisted, but S’en just rolled her eyes as she scooped a healing cream from a tin and carefully dabbed it over the skin split across the bridge of his nose, to help it heal and protect it from infection. Drelethyn let out a content sigh at the numbing sensation.

The sun was setting behind the hills by the time they had returned to their camp. Soon as S’en was satisfied with her patching job and let him go, Drelethyn almost immediately set to gathering any nearby tinder — the land was still warm, but when the moons rose it would be quick to become frigid, as they knew well by now. S’en retrieved a sack of ash yams they’d bought in Molag Mar and set to peeling them of their tough skins. Beneath her satisfaction at having _anything_ to eat lay a growing disdain for the root. There was only so many meals in a row one could eat roasted ash yams without getting sick of them.

Drelethyn had taken out both Cor’s journal and the _Hanging Gardens_ and laid them open side-by-side. He sat cross-legged, palms planted on his knees.

“Alright,” he said. “So we have Cor’s journal and the city of Thumz-Nchulthand, also known as Wasten Coridale,” he gestured to the books in turn before picking up a nearby stick, “Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House,” the rounded scarab symbol of House Dagoth appeared in the ash as he crudely drew it into the dust, so similar to the Redoran scarab yet not quite the same, “Lorkhan, and your life-stealing capability _._ ” The last words were emphasized with the stick pointed in S’en’s direction.

“So how do these things all relate?” S’en asked, flicking away another curl of tough yam skin.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Drelethyn grumbled. “We know the Dwemer discovered the Heart of Lorkhan, and that they apparently taught House Dagoth to use the thing you’re able to do.”

“Fabrication,” she reminded him.

“Right. So what I want to know is what Cor _specifically_ had to do with any of this, and why Dagoth Ur seems so persistent about it. And where a mythological city like Wasten Coridale fits into the whole picture.” Drelethyn paused, knowing S’en wasn’t going to like what he was about to say next and trying to find the best way to word it. “And where you come in.”

“ _Me_?” S’en said.

“Think about it S’en. At this point do you really think it’s just _coincidence_ that it is you and I on this wild guar chase?”

“You think we were led into this.”

Drelethyn nodded. “Dagoth Ur is already clearly trying to get something out of me, or steer me toward something. After what happened in Piran? You’re clearly as much a person of interest to them as I am, or as Cor is. If not more.”

S’en grimaced, tossing away the next bit of ash skin with more force than was strictly needed. Drelethyn let out a sigh, stacking the books and placing them aside in favor of retrieving the small travel kettle and starting to brew a tea.

“So we’re looking for a missing link,” S’en said, after she had put the yams on the fire. She sat across the fire from him, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her shins. Her strange eyes shone bright in the firelight, the skin around them dark with fatigue. Only when she glanced up at him did Drelethyn realize he’d been staring, having yet to answer her question.

“It seems like it,” Drelethyn conceded, ignoring the flustered part of him that wanted to make some lame excuse. “I can’t think of what else it would be.”

The roasted ash yams, when they were finished, were eaten in relative silence. At some point Drelethyn had cracked open the books again, flipping through the pages as he idly finished the rest of his food.

S’en sat beside Drelethyn, handing him a redware cup filled with the weak tea he had put on and promptly forgot about. He took it without looking up, but nonetheless thanked her. She hummed, leaning back against the large fallen log. Their shoulders nearly brushed in their closeness, but Drelethyn made no comment and S’en couldn’t be bothered to move aside, appreciative of the warmth that came from both him and the fire before them. 

S’en tucked an elbow up to rest on the log, using her bent arm as a pillow as she shifted her weight to one hip and stretched her legs out. She watched Drelethyn as he worked, her attention drifting from the books that lay before him to his face. He didn’t notice her looking, or if he did he clearly didn’t care enough to call her out on it, so she took the opportunity to really _look_ at him. His hair had grown since their encounter in the South Wall cornerclub, just long enough for him to be pushing it back from his face, only for it to slip from behind his ears once again. A slight shadow graced his jawline, the growing stubble threatening to ruin his meticulously-shaped beard. 

Reven suddenly came to mind unprompted, sending a pain through S’en’s heart. All these years and she still desperately missed the man. Her hand sought out his talisman, warm as it settled into her palm when she gripped it, holding it close to herself. She wondered, briefly, what Reven would think of Drelethyn. Her lips twitched up into a slight smile. Reven would probably find Drelethyn insufferable, for no other reason than a clash of personalities. Drelethyn likely wouldn’t have the best impression of Reven either, all things considered.

Then again, Drelethyn seemed to have forgiven _her,_ somehow, despite everything she had done. Which was far, far worse than what Reven ever had. Strange how these things worked.

S’en hadn’t noticed that she had slipped into a light slumber until she felt her arm growing numb. Opening her eyes, she readjusted, arm tingling as the blood flowed back into the limb. She blinked, the haze of sleep not having left her mind quite yet. The fire had burned low, the logs nearly eaten to ash by the few stray flames that licked at them still. Lifting her gaze, she saw that Drelethyn hadn’t moved, still sitting hunched over as he had been earlier, idly puffing the pipe between his lips. 

“You’re still working?” she asked, her voice soft. Reaching to where they had tinder stacked from earlier, she tossed some branches and twigs onto the dying fire, using another stick to stir up the embers and encourage them to catch on the dry wood.

Drelethyn hummed. She watched as he quickly paged through _Hanging Gardens_ , then Cor’s journal, then _Hanging Gardens_ once more.

“What’s wrong?” she pressed. The stick she held caught aflame, and she tossed it in with the rest.

“The last part of this doesn’t make any sense.” Drelethyn tapped on the page he had open in Cor’s journal. “For most of the text, I’ve been able to use _The_ _Hanging Gardens_ as a basis for translation, enough that I can glean what Cor’s writing about here through skimming.” His finger ran across the page, tracing beneath the words of a particular passage. “She’s in the middle of a thought when this entry cuts off. Then in the next entry,” he flipped the page with the stem of his pipe, “the syntax abruptly changes, and it just… becomes gibberish.”

“How so?”

“Sentences constructed out of random words. No adherence to any grammatical structure whatsoever. Nothing makes any sense.”

“Perhaps she lost her mind,” S’en mused idly. “You said that she was persecuted, right? Maybe they had a good reason for considering her ideas dangerous. Or maybe she broke under the pressure.”

Drelethyn let out a frustrated sigh, but eventually conceded. “Perhaps. I did translate the note she left at the end of the _Hanging Gardens_ however.”

“What did it say?”

Drelethyn picked up the _Hanging Gardens_ and opened it to the last page, where he had tucked a loose scrap of paper with his writing on it. “‘ _Put down your ardent cutting-globes, Nbthld…’—_ I’m going to guess that’s a name— _‘Your Aldmeris has the correct words, but they cannot be properly misinterpreted,’”_ he read, before sighing. “Again, vague and unhelpful like the rest of it.”

S’en lifted her head from its place on her arm, stretching her neck as she straightened. “It’s late,” she said. “You should try to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

Drelethyn made an affirming sound under his breath, his attention still on the journal. Shifting, S’en crouched before him, bringing herself eye-to-eye. 

“There’s no use fretting over it now,” she said. “I highly doubt you’d be able to cure the dreams in a single night even if you did have all the answers. You may as well get what rest you can.”

Drelethyn looked at her, then closed the journal and _The Hanging Gardens_ before gathering them both beneath one arm. S’en stepped back to give him space as he stood. They unrolled their bedrolls in the tent, the silence companionable. Drelethyn offered S’en his pipe and what remained in it, which she accepted. Pulling off her boots, S’en settled down cross-legged atop her bedroll, looking out over the moon-lit ashlands as the soft sound of Drelethyn’s breathing and the aromatic pipe smoke filled the space between them.


	25. Molag Amur Region, 3E 415

He stood as Archmaster of House Redoran once again. He knew this, vaguely, somehow, before he even opened his eyes. His hair was long as it hadn’t been in years, tied up high on his head and trailing down the nape of his neck. The old weight of the mantle rested across his shoulders, the large, iridescent wings protruding from the back over the folds of his ceremonial robes. He looked down at himself and immediately was struck with the knowledge that his robes were the wrong color; instead of the noble red, the fabric was dyed the exact color of fresh blood, a sight that Drelethyn was all too familiar with.

“Drelethyn?”

He turned to find S’en standing behind him. She was dressed in the robes of a Redoran noblewoman. A great brass scarab clung to her hair in the back, a pin struck through it’s abdomen, keeping her dark hair gathered up in the style favored by Redoran women among families old and influential. The robes she wore were ornate, long, embroidered with intricate geometric florals and gracefully cut of that same bloody hue, her eyes marked beneath with a reddened kohl and her lips carrying the faintest hint of pigment. If he stared at her for a moment too long, he couldn’t be blamed. The difference from her usual worn leathers and snarled, ash-blown hair was staggering. She looked the ideal of Redoran beauty.

She also looked deeply uncomfortable.

“Where are we?” S’en asked, drawing close to him as she glanced around nervously. Drelethyn became aware of the room they stood in; if Drelethyn were to hazard a guess, he’d say it were some sort of ceremonial chamber, with high walls of smooth clay and vaulted ceilings intricately inlaid with precious woods and elytra, framed by lit braziers and hazy with musky-sweet smoke that floated lazily from the bellies of swaying censers that hung from the ceiling. A silent procession walked slowly by, bowls of incense, ash salts, dried flowers, frankincense, pomegranates, aromatic oils and other offerings cradled in their hands. Observers stood on either side of the hall, all donned in the red that he and S’en wore. They watched the procession in a solemn silence. Drelethyn was struck with the sudden, inexplicable knowledge that every person in this room aside from them were dead. 

S’en seemed to have realized the same. He felt her hand slip in his, lacing their fingers together and gripping tight as she bit her lip and stood close to his side. The behavior was unusual for her, but then again, he’d figured that this was a dream already.

“Come on,” he whispered, pulling S’en along behind him as he slipped through the crowd, following the procession to see where they were going. Their surroundings turned from clay architecture to the rough, natural stone of a cavern. The air was hot here, almost stifling. As they walked, the walls of the cavern began to tighten, narrowing to the point that they had to slip into the procession themselves in order to fit through. The dead allowed them to join without protest, without acknowledgment even, simply pausing their steady step for a moment. The ceiling of the tunnel lowered and lowered, until they were having to stoop to fit, and for a horrifying moment Drelethyn feared that they were all walking to a dead end, only to be crushed by the bodies behind them who continued unawares. His grip on S’en’s hand tightened, and he felt her squeeze his in return. 

Then, after another turn, the narrowing tunnel suddenly opened into a vast cavern. The sight of what it held caused Drelethyn to stop walking, open-mouthed as he stared. Before them towered an effigy of metal, ebony and bone, rising from the lava far below like a long-forsaken god. S’en pulled him aside. They stood and watched in horror as the procession crossed a bridge leading to the metal god’s open chest, where between the exposed ribs they burned, one by one, offering and offeror alike alight with a rose-gold fire that consumed them from within, leaving a smoking pile of ashes and bone amid the ones that came before. Above them, the god stared down, eyes black and uncaring, boring deep as though it sought to strip them to the bone. 

“We need to go,” S’en said, tugging on his hand with a sudden urgency. The terror that had seized Drelethyn’s heart agreed. He turned to find their path blocked by the sacrificial dead, who surrounded them, seemingly in greater numbers than before. Where their faces should be were instead deep-burnt holes, a red glow emanating from somewhere far within their skulls.

_Why do you run?_ They asked, hundreds of voices speaking as one, dissonant as the broken chiming of a deep metal bell. _Why do you run?_

_You are among friends, why do you run?_

They pressed in from all sides, forcing S’en and Drelethyn back-to-back as they were crowded by the demanding bodies.

_Why do you run from us?_

Drelethyn squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to disappear, willing himself to wake up, _anything_ to stop the voices.

_Why?_

_Why?_

_WHY?_

And with that final, questioning word, blooming around them from a chorus of broken throats, the surrounding dead, their profane god, and the firelit cavern vanished. Drelethyn blinked, and found himself standing in the middle of a different room. The walls and floor were of a pounded metal, pipes snaking across the ceiling and a machine hissing and turning in a nook along one of the walls. Dwemer, clearly, but without the age of the ruins seen all throughout Vvardenfell. The machines ran seamlessly, well-oiled and without sound. Tapestries depicting scenes of gardens and animunculi hung from the walls, rosettes and fine loomwork. Rugs adorned the floor. A potted fire fern sat alone in a corner, beneath the warmth of one of the artificial lamps that cast their strange light without a flicker. A desk sat cluttered with instruments of unknown purpose, books propped open, the signs of an abandoned project taking the form of a messy collection of tiny gears, bolts, metal scrap, and tools. He reached out and flipped one of the open books closed, and saw it to be none other than the _Hanging Gardens._ This was Nchuleftingth, before it _became_ a ruin, Drelethyn realized. 

S’en was still at his side, looking around with naked astonishment. She was in her normal traveling clothes — they both were, he noted, grateful to look down and find the heavy mantle and robes had been replaced by his familiar bonemold armor and leathers.

The quick sound of footsteps rapping against the metal floor, alongside a peculiar _click-click-clicking_ drew his attention away from her.

“Quickly,” a voice said, from beyond the doors. 

The metal port creaked open, and a woman stepped in, followed by a man whose lower half had been replaced by metal parts with long, spindly legs, spider-like in shape and aesthetic. They were Dwemer, both, judging by their dark, curly hair and beards, heavy metal jewelry, conservative yet-elegantly embroidered robes, and dull near-grey skin. They had the same sharp features and pointed ears as all mer shared, but as they grew closer, Drelethyn could see their eyes were of a muted purple, a color he’d never seen in any other merish race.

The woman closed the door, sealing the lock before turning back to her companion. When he saw her face, Drelethyn recognized her.

“That’s Cor,” he whispered to S’en. S’en looked at him, surprise clear in her eyes, before she turned her attention to Cor once more. Neither Cor nor the Dwemer man seemed to notice them. It as were they weren’t there at all.

“And you’re _certain_ of this,” the man said, skepticism clear in his tone.

“I am,” Cor said, as she walked over to a chest that was tucked beneath a worktable. Taking a key from her robes, she crouched, unlocking the chest and pushing its heavy lid open.

“Cor you must realize how dangerous this is,” the man said, near-pleading.

“I know,” Cor said as she pulled two rolls of long paper from the chest. “But we are out of options, and out of time. If Kagrenac succeeds, if her Numidium is completed and the Heart placed within it, if it is _activated_ ,” Cor stood and gave Yagrum a severe look, “it won’t be just us who will suffer, Yagrum. It will be everyone. _Everything_.”

“I hold about as much love for Kagrenac as you. What I’m failing to see is how this is… what you intend to do? What He’s asked you to do? It’s unheard of.” Yagrum stepped aside as Cor walked to the desk and placed the papers upon it. She unrolled one, stretching it long across the metal surface, using a nearby tool and book to keep the edges flat. 

“Have you no faith, Yagrum Bagarn?” Cor said, a wry smile on her face.

“In _Him?_ No.”

“How about me? Do you trust me?”

He seemed almost offended. “I do, you _know_ that,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t be standing here with the Corale being one vote away from executing us all if I didn’t trust you.”

“Then trust me in the faith I’ve put into Him.”

As they continued to speak, Drelethyn released S’en’s hand — he hadn’t noticed he’d still been holding it, truth be told — and wandered over to the desk to look at what Cor had laid out, being careful to not touch either of them and somehow disturb the vision.

They were schematics, like none Drelethyn had ever seen before. And Drelethyn had, over the years, collected numerous Dwemer schematics, the Empire’s ban on the trading of Dwemer artifacts and insistence they were all to be owned by themselves be damned. The writing on the schema was done in Cor’s hand, so it was safe to assume the entire thing was of her making. Depicted there in red-leaded pencil was an animunculus, of a design unseen in any that Drelethyn had witnessed himself, heard, or read of. The build was eerily life-like, pistons and gears mimicking muscle and joint, internal workings built in some skewed mechanic-facsimile of the organs of a living being. In its center, where the sternum would lay, a large red circle was drawn, indicating what Drelethyn would not be able to guess. The entire thing was astonishingly complex, and he could see why this Yagrum Bagarn thought the whole thing to be insane. He suspected even the smartest of the Dwemer would not be able to begin deciphering what it was Cor had created here.

“The faith you’ve put into Him,” Yagrum repeated slowly, looking over the schematics. “You know we will be killed if we are caught,” he said. 

“At this rate, I suspect we are to be killed either way. Kagrenac has certainly done her part in convincing the Corale that our words are a danger to society and need to be repressed.”

“She would like that, wouldn’t she?”

And with a startling abruptness, Drelethyn woke up.

He blinked, disoriented, staring up at the canvas peak of the tent. The sun filtered in through the seams. Daylight. He’d hadn’t taken his watch. Sitting up, he found S’en laying sprawled atop her bedroll, curled in a position that could not be comfortable and suggested she had fallen asleep by accident. She stirred at his movement, stretching out with a pained groan and shoving the palm of one hand to rub angrily at her eye. 

“ _N’chow_ ,” she swore, her voice slurred with sleep. Her hair was a tangled mess as she sat up, the ash and wind having caused it to stick up at odd angles. She ran a hand through it. “Damn it. Sorry.”

“Well we’re not dead, nor did I try to kill you while dreaming.” Drelethyn cleared his dry throat harshly, pulling his nearby canteen toward himself to take a drink.

“You dreamt?” S’en asked, dropping her hand to look at him.

“Did you?” Drelethyn asked in return. S’en nodded, biting her lip as she furrowed her brow.

“It was weird,” she said. “I was in this room, in these _heavy_ robes—you were there, looking as Archmaster-ly as you used to—and there were all these people around us, watching—”

“A procession, of people bearing gifts. And we followed them,” Drelethyn finished, realization having dawned on him as S’en was speaking.

S’en looked at him, open-mouthed in surprise. Her expression twisted into something uncomfortable. 

“We had the same dream,” S’en said, dumbfounded.

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” 

An awkward silence hung between them, neither sure of what to say. After a moment, Drelethyn offered S’en his canteen. She accepted it with a mumbled thanks, taking a deep drink. Wiping her lips on the back of her hand, she returned his canteen. 

“What was Cor building?” S’en asked. 

Drelethyn frowned, trying to recall. He knew they were schematics, for… _something,_ something unnatural and profound and game-changing. He couldn’t remember _what_ it was, what it vaguely looked like even. Every time he tried to grasp the memory, it fled further, like the word at the tip of one’s tongue that became impossible to speak the more one tried.

“I can’t remember,” he said, frustrated. “It’s… I can’t remember.” 

He thought on it more, scratching at his chin, feeling the rough stubble there. He’d have to take the time to shave once they returned to somewhere with a proper tavern. His beard had undoubtedly lost all shape.

Cor’s companion. The one with the spider legs.

“Yagrum Bagrum… Bagnum. Bagarn. Whatever his name was, it sounded familiar. I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before,” Drelethyn said, almost mumbling as he turned the name over in his mind. Yagrum Bagarn. That was it, most certainly. _But where…?_

S’en had slipped out of the tent and was standing, her arms above her head as she stretched with a deeply satisfied groan, standing on her toes with the effort. Dropping her arms, she rotated one shoulder as she looked down at him. Undoubtedly her shoulder would be aching from her leap at Nchuleftingth. Having your entire body weight working against you as you’re abruptly caught and yanked up wasn’t ever something that would sit pleasantly unnoticed. 

“So where do we go from here?” S’en asked as she poked at the cooled ashes from last night’s fire with a blacked stick.

Drelethyn rubbed the back of his neck before throwing the blankets aside and stretching. He’d slept in his clothes, and the off-white of his shirt had become a resolute grey throughout their time in the ashlands. 

“Back to civilization,” Drelethyn said, attempting to pick a stray flake of ash from his shoulder and only succeeding in leaving a dark grey smudge on the linen. “Somewhere with a bathhouse and laundry of some sorts preferably. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had my fill of unfettered ashlands for a good while.” 

S’en hummed in agreement. Retrieving a piece of dried scrib meat from her pack, she idly chewed it as she began packing up the rest of her things, lashing up her bedroll as Drelethyn put his leather vest and armor back on, taking a moment to check the laces of his boots to ensure the bonemold plating was snug and in-place.

The weather, in the least, seemed to be agreeable, if only for the late-morning. The sun was hazy in the sky, but it was one of the clearest days that they’d seen in the Molag Amur thus far. The guar was still asleep, lying next to the dead tree that he’d been lashed to, looking perfectly content. S’en went over to wake him as Drelethyn worked on taking down the tent, lining up the wooden posts and wrapping the tent-canvas around them before tying the whole bundle up tightly. He looked over to see S’en giving Auro an affectionate scritch atop his head as her other hand held his — likewise “rented” — feed-bag open for him to eat from. 

Drelethyn sat back on his haunches, considering the tent before he hefted it onto his shoulder, grabbing his bedroll with his free hand as he walked over to where S’en and the guar waited. In his mind he was still thinking over the dream from last night, trying to recall just _where_ he had heard that name before. He was certain he _had._

They loaded the tent and bedrolls onto the guar, alongside the sack of ash yams and one of S’en’s two small packs. Neither of them took to riding the guar, with Drelethyn simply leading it along as they walked. 

“What’s nearest to here?” S’en asked, once more rubbing at her shoulder.

“Well, Molag Mar is still the closest settlement,” Drelethyn said, “but going back the way we came would probably not be smart.”

S’en frowned at that. Piran was fresh in her mind. She was still without her life-stealing ability — she’d tried to practice on an ash yam as Drelethyn slept last night, to no avail. It left her feeling vulnerable, tense and on-edge. But, by whatever good luck she still had left going for her, or by whatever Saint decided to pity her, it seemed as though along with robbing her of her Fabrication, Dagoth Mulis also took whatever part of her had craved it so desperately. S’en had suffered withdrawal before, with its deadly shakes and pathetic desperation. Had he not taken her addiction somehow, she would be a damned sight by now. Four days had always been as far as she could push it before the need grew too strong again. But now, where before there was that ravenous desire clawing at the back of her mind, she felt… nothing.

As relieving as it should have been, it felt wrong. Empty. Numb.

She supposed not all blessings could be without tithe. 

“The next closest settlement is Tel Vos, north-east of here,” Drelethyn said. S’en looked over her shoulder to see he’d retrieved a battered map at some point and was now looking over it as he walked. “Further east, there’s Sadrith Mora, but there’s a scattering of isles between the main coast and that town, and we’d have to swim. It’s all Telvanni land so its lose-lose either way…” The last sentence was grumbled, distaste clear in his tone.

S’en didn’t know much about the Telvanni, other than Reven refused to go to House Telvanni lands, that they were master wizards, and that they were outright bastards with no morals or value for life. If that stood true, visiting a Telvanni city was going to be an… interesting experience in the least.

“Oh saints fetching _damn it—_ ” Drelethyn groaned loudly, covering his face with one palm as he tilted his head back to the sky. He’d stopped walking, and S’en looked at him with confusion as he dropped his hand to angrily fold up the map again.

“What’s wrong?” S’en asked, concerned.

“I know where I’ve heard the name Yagrum Bagarn from before,” Drelethyn said with a harsh sigh. “Of course it had to be from him, didn’t it. Because things just can’t be simple.”

“Drelethyn, what are you on about?” S’en was losing her patience, watching as he returned the map to his pack.

“I heard the name from Divayth Fyr, an… old acquaintance of mine. His _tel_ is east of us, and unfortunately if we want any answers, we’re going to have to go to him personally.”

“Well that doesn’t sound _that_ bad,” S’en said, prompting Drelethyn to bark out a harsh, sudden laugh.

“Oh just you wait and see,” Drelethyn said. “Just you wait and see.”


	26. Tel Fyr, 3E 415

Divayth Fyr, S’en learned as they walked, was the oldest person alive in Morrowind, if not all of Tamriel. Four thousand years old. He’d been around since the First Era, and no one knew all that much about him. An enigmatic master wizard, he kept to himself. _Mostly._ There were a few people who piqued his interest over the years, and unfortunately Drelethyn had been one of them.

“What did you _do?_ ” S’en asked.

“I beat him at a game of _ketch_ and was apparently the first person to do so in over a thousand years,” Drelethyn groused. At S’en’s confused look, he let out an exasperated sigh. “This was back when I was in the Redoran Guard, in, oh I don’t know, 250-something. After the House War. Some notable merchant’s daughter had gone missing while travelling, and Fyr was suspected to have something to do with it, so I was sent to investigate. Turns out the daughter had wandered straight into the midst of some experiment Fyr was doing, and so he was holding her to observe any side effects. When I got there, she was just sitting in a chair, looking completely bewildered but unharmed. Fyr told me that he wanted to wait a few more hours to ensure that she wouldn’t, and I quote, ‘dissolve all mass and turn into a pile of Dunmer sludge’, so he challenged me to the game to pass the time.” 

“And you took him up on it.”

“It’s not as though I had much choice in the matter. I would have let him won had I known that winning would permanently catch his attention,” Drelethyn said.

S’en snorted. She let the conversation settle into silence, seemingly more interested in looking at the strange, tangled ashland flora and the juts of bone-white petrified trees as they wandered through the ash dunes. A lava pool stretched out alongside the rough path they followed, its trapped heat escaping from beneath the ash in vents alongside its edges.

For Drelethyn, was odd to speak of his days in the Redoran Guard, as long ago as that was. Back when he was young and still ignorant as to what he would be getting himself into. Something about being out in the ashlands of Vvardenfell again, the ones he’d grown up in as a child, brought those memories back to the forefront of his mind.

Drelethyn wasn’t ignorant of how his absence from serving as acting Archmaster had changed him. Despite his constant worries about the state of House Redoran — Bolvyn had been quick to establish himself as leader following Drelethyn’s “death” and many of the things Drelethyn feared had come to pass — a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, one that he’d been carrying for so long he stopped noticing it was there. Here, in the middle of the savage, raw beauty of the ash wastes, he was no longer Archmaster Drelethyn Venim Redoran. He did not need to keep his words in check, did not need to weave his honest opinion into something sweet-worded or temper it into a weapon, did not need to constantly be looking over his shoulder to ensure he was alone before he let out a weary breath. 

He would have to return to House Redoran eventually. Leaving the House under Bolvyn’s rule wasn’t something he could let stand, for the safety of his people and their honor. Bolvyn was egotistical and sought grandeur over stability; him moving the capital to Ald’ruhn, directly in the line of the blight storms, the death and disease they carried, was proof enough of his folly as a leader. So Drelethyn needed to figure out what lay at the core of this mystery that had unfolded before him and S’en, cure himself of the dreams, and return to House Redoran to give honest testimony for his leaving. He had enough loyalists in the Council that he suspected, with proof, he’d have little difficulty reclaiming his title. Bolvyn would be unlikely to want to give it up, but Drelethyn had long suspected the reason his cousin never challenged him directly for the title of Archmaster was because Bolvyn did not think he could defeat Drelethyn in honorable battle.

Even with all of this in mind, there was a growing part of Drelethyn that had begun to dread the idea of his return to his tenure as Archmaster. As though he had any other choice.

And this was all _without_ taking S’en into consideration. 

S’en was a criminal. Drelethyn first-hand had seen the devastation she had caused, what she was capable of. By law, he should be hauling her in and bringing her to justice. And in the South Wall cornerclub, when it became clear that she was going to accompany him on his travels whether or not he liked it, he had made the decision that he would do just that once he had uncovered a cure for the dreams. After all, returning to House Redoran with the _Ara-dra_ in tow would only further increase his popularity and help smooth over his transition back to power. 

But then he had grown to know S’en, and had come to know of her power as an addiction and a curse that she feared and did not understand; had grown to see her as a person instead of an urban legend, broken and unyielding for it. Someone who found an innocent wonder in things that Drelethyn had long taken for granted. Someone who was, for lack of a better term, _trying._ He, unfortunately, had grown to genuinely _like_ S’en. And that changed everything.

He’d aways hated when his personal feelings and what House Redoran demanded of him opposed one another. Which is in part why he’d become as good at suppressing his personal feelings as he was. 

There was still time for him to figure it out. With their finding the _Hanging Gardens_ , with what they’d learned at Piran, it was clear that they were both mechanisms in a scheme far larger and all-encompassing than either of them could have imagined. House Redoran would just have to manage in his absence. 

At least Athyn was still there to keep an eye on matters of the Council.

If there was one thing he was certain of, it’s that he owed his dear friend a gift of some _very_ expensive alcohol and a thorough explanation followed by an apology. Athyn had dealt with plenty of Drelethyn’s more ridiculous ‘strategies’ in the past, but Drelethyn had a feeling that showing up again after supposedly having been murdered is on its own tier. Part of him had contemplated warning Athyn of his plan beforehand to spare his friend the emotional pain, but the risk of his being found out was already too great. Drelethyn was resigned to the possibility that Athyn could elect to never speak to him again once his deception was revealed. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but couldn’t deny that it’d be more than fair. He really did ask too much of Athyn.

S’en seemed to notice his troubled thoughts, as she came to walk beside Auro, looking up at where he sat guarback.

“You alright?” she asked. 

Drelethyn paused, lacking words in the face of her genuine concern. He, of course, couldn’t tell her what he’d been thinking of, particularly how it concerned her. 

“Uh, yeah, I’m alright,” he lied, unthinkingly dragging a hand over his face then swearing as his broken nose throbbed with pain. “Ow, ow, ow. _Fetching_ … ‘m fine. I’m fine. Just trying to make some sense of all of this. Not really getting anywhere with it.”

S’en raised her brows, clearly not buying it. Drelethyn took the opportunity to abruptly change the subject.

“You do alchemy?” he asked.

“What?”

“I’ve noticed you looking at the flora out here a bit. And you had that stuff you put on my nose.”

“Oh,” S’en’s nose scrunched, lips pursed as she thought. Something about it was endearing. “I learned how to make basic medicines as part of my… _training_. Got better at making it because we ended up _needing_ it. I’ve been wondering what the plants out here would be good for. Particularly the fire flowers. And the black lichen, I’ve never seen that before.” 

“Not potions, though?” Drelethyn asked.

“Crafting potions requires expensive tools I don’t have coin for,” S’en explained. “The medicines I make are cheaper… tinctures, balms, salves. They work, and that was good enough for me.”

“I’d say. My nose certainly hurts less. That might be because I can’t feel my nose at all though.” The last bit was a tease, earning him a shove to the thigh. 

“That means it’s _working_ you dolt,” she said, smirking. She clapped her hands together. “Okay, your turn.” 

Drelethyn frowned, unsure of what she meant. 

“My turn?” he asked.

“I told you something about myself,” she said, giving him a sly look. “Now its your turn to tell me something.”

“Alright, fine, what do you want to know?” He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the base of the guar’s back as he looked down at her.

S’en fell quiet for a moment, hand pressed to her lips as she considered. Drelethyn was surprised by how much thought she was seemingly putting into it.

“Hmm… How old _are_ you?” she said finally, glancing up at him with a furrowed brow.

“All the questions you could ask and that’s what you go with?” he said, incredulous.

“Well _no_ , that’s not the one I _wanted_ to ask, but you mentioned being around in 3E 250. That’d make you what… a hundred, hundred-fifty—”

“Two-hundred fourteen,” Drelethyn said. “I was born in 3E 201.”

S’en balked, then laughed. “You’re an old man!” she exclaimed.

“I’m not _old_ ,” he retorted. “There are people centuries older than me.”

“Whatever you say, you old geezer.” But S’en was grinning, clearly trying to get him riled up and enjoying herself for it.

“Well considering I’m old, I guess that means I have to ride the guar the whole rest of the way there,” he said. Two could play at this game.

“Hey, wait—”

“No, no, you’re right, my brittle old bones can’t take all the walking.” 

“You bastard, that’s not fair!” She reached up, trying to grasp Auro’s lead from him. The guar made a snuffling sound, his walk slowing to a halt.

“Sorry, what?” Drelethyn said, holding the lead up so she couldn’t reach it. “I can’t hear you, my ears aren’t what they used to be.”

“Give me the lead Venim!”

“Respect your elders!”

By this point S’en was leaning against the guar’s flank, struggling to hold herself up as she curled over with laughter. Drelethyn was able to hold the ruse for a moment longer before he too burst out laughing.

The sky was darkening with the beginnings of twilight when they first began to see tufts of dull grass appear amongst the ash, the dunes steadily flattening into even terrain as the Molag Amur region gave way to the coast. The soil was a sulfuric yellow, clouds of steam escaping from volcanic vents amid small groves of petrified trees. Drelethyn had by that time long seceded his guar-riding rights to S’en, who was now slumped over the back of the creature, thoroughly bored. 

“We should be reaching the coast here soon,” Drelethyn said. “If I remember correctly, Tel Fyr isn’t too far from here, but don’t quote me on that.”

S’en peered out before them, but couldn’t see much beyond the thickening fog. 

“You said we’ll have to swim?” she asked.

“Unfortunately,” Drelethyn said. “Unless you know how to walk on water.”

“Is that something people can _do?_ ” 

“Apparently.” 

The persistent wind that blew across the ashlands had settled here, calming to a gentle breeze. S’en could hear the sound of water against rocks. Slowing Auro to a halt, she slipped from the guar’s back, walking forward as the coastline came into view. Across the lapping grey waters of the Padomaic Ocean rose what she could only assume was Tel Fyr. She stood at the edge of the waters, eyes wide as she looked at what she could see of the great _tel_ through the fog. Even obscured, it was remarkable; a towering fortress of organic growth, sprouted from mushrooms and twisted into a spire. In the hazy glow of a far-away lantern, S’en could see the curve of a great root, reaching out across the water to serve as a dock. 

“Looks like we’re in the right place after all,” Drelethyn commented.

“So this is a _tel_ ,” she said, her voice soft.

“Sure is,” Drelethyn said, hands planted on his hips as he too looked up at the tower. “They’re impressive, I’ll give it that. Too bad they’re grown by complete bastards.”

“Divayth Fyr _grew_ this?” S’en asked, brows raised as she looked up at Drelethyn.

“Nope. Telvanni Council gave it to him as a gift to try to convince him to join the House. He said ‘no’ but took the _tel_ nonetheless.”

“Drelethyn, look.” S’en pointed out over the water. 

There was a woman, walking toward them on the water from the distant dock. She walked with a steady, even pace, the waters around her feet glowing a purple and still enough to see the ripples of her steps fan out into wide rings. Drelethyn’s hand instinctively dropped to the hilt of his sword, the other twitching in an aborted motion to push S’en behind him before he thought better of it.

They stood at the edge of the silent shore, watching the woman as she approached. It was only as she drew near that Drelethyn recognized her.

“Alfe,” he greeted. 

The dunmer woman — Alfe — regarded them with a cool gaze. 

“Drelethyn Venim,” she said. “It seems you’re not as dead as they say.” 

Drelethyn shrugged lamely. “Things happen.”

Alfe’s gaze disinterestedly rested on S’en for a moment before she turned away from them.

“Come along then,” she said, gesturing with her hand. 

S’en suddenly felt a strange, tingling sensation flow throughout her body, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. Drelethyn looked uncomfortable, grumbling something she couldn’t catch beneath his breath. Alfe had begun to walk away, across the water, back to Tel Fyr.

“Are we supposed to follow her?” S’en asked, lowly. 

Suddenly, she was jostled to the side as Auro pushed between her and Drelethyn, trotting forward without hesitation. Drelethyn let out a shout as the guar’s movement jerked him forward by the lead he held, sending him stumbling toward the water. But when his feet touched the surface, it as though he were standing on a solid floor. Auro likewise trundled across the water’s surface with no issue. After a moment of hesitation, S’en huffed out a breath and jogged to catch up, only stumbling for a moment at the unusual sensation.

Their crossing took some time, Tel Fyr deceptively further than it appeared through the fog. S’en felt herself relax only as her feet landed on the root-dock, and she decided — as unique an experience as it was — she wasn’t fond of walking on water. The threat of the spell wearing off and being unexpectedly plunged into the sea was too unnerving, considering the slaughterfish that lurked along Vvardenfell’s coasts with their taste for flesh.

“Leave your beast out here,” Alfe ordered. 

“Oh, of course, where should—” Drelethyn began, but Alfe had already walked off, ascending the coiling stairs that led to a pounded bronze port-door set into the side of the _tel,_ organic matter embracing the metal to create a frame of curling roots.

“…Alright then,” Drelethyn said to himself. 

“Who was that?” S’en asked, once Alfe had disappeared into the _tel._

“That’s one of Fyr’s daughters,” Drelethyn said. “There’s four of them — Alfe, Beyte, Delte, and Uupse.” 

“Weird names,” she commented. Drelethyn let out a laugh. 

“Don’t let them hear that,” he said. He tied Auro to one of the few thin, sparsely-leafed trees that grew on the isle amid the towering fungi, contemplating for a moment on what to do about their things before electing to hand S’en her pack, take his own, and leave the rest of their luggage — the tent and other camp gear mostly — with the guar. 

S’en followed him up the steps and through the port door. The inside of the _tel_ opened into a hall of three directions; directly before them lay a large, circular room set with a hearth, a table, and chairs. Various baskets and crates lined the walls of the room, and along one side there curved a planter, filled with the soft blue glow of coda flowers. Off to either side stretched two hallways, each of which turned a corner, obscuring what lie further down them.The air was stifling, the strong scent of plant matter thick. S’en resisted the urge to sneeze.

Alfe stood in the open hall, waiting for them alongside another Dunmer woman. Her hair was white to Alfe’s red, but standing side by side, S’en was immediately struck by how they looked completely identical to one another. 

“Oh, it’s Archmaster Venim,” the new woman commented, brows raised. “We thought you were dead. Our husband will be glad to see otherwise. I’ll go tell him.”

With that she whisked out of the room, disappearing down one of the side halls. Alfe leveled a judgemental look at them.

“I take it if you couldn’t walk on water you can’t fly either,” she said. Drelethyn didn’t have the chance to respond before she sighed in an overly annoyed manner. “Stay here and _don’t touch anything._ ”

Alfe followed her sister out of the room, leaving S’en and Drelethyn standing alone. Drelethyn looked down at S’en to see her grimacing, looking deeply disturbed. 

“What’s up?” Drelethyn asked.

“You said they were Fyr’s _daughters_ ,” she said. “She called him their _husband._ ”

“Oh— _oh._ Oh, uh yeah, that’s… they’re not, actually.”

“Not what? His daughters or his wives?”

“Either. They’re not either of those things. They’re clones of his, and unfortunately they all share a deeply messed up sense of humor. Hence the ‘daughter-wives’.”

S’en’s expression had changed from one of disgust to utter confusion, her lip curled and brow furrowed.

“They’re his _clones?_ ” she repeated, exasperated.

“Fyr is… something. Like I said to you earlier, ‘just you wait and see’. He told me that he made them to store his memories, or something along those lines.” 

S’en didn’t look all that comforted by any of this, and Drelethyn couldn’t blame her. He’d had years to get accustomed to Divayth Fyr’s _particular brand_ of unnerving, and even then the eclectic bastard threw him on the regular. It occurred to him, suddenly, that for S’en _unfamiliarity_ probably directly translated into _unsafe_ , which would explain why she seemed still so on-edge, unable to lower her defenses.

“We’re safe here,” Drelethyn assured, taking his chances and giving S’en’s upper arm a squeeze. “Fyr is a bastard, but he’s harmless.” 

S’en looked at him from the corner of her eye, then let out a harsh breath and nodded. Drelethyn took a seat in one of the available chairs, suppressing a groan as he tilted his head back. His legs ached from walking for the past few days, and the weariness from lack of sleep had long since settled itself deep into his bones. S’en sat across from him, folding her arms across the table and propping her chin on them. 

“Aren’t you worried?” she asked quietly.

“About what?” he said.

“They know who you are, and that you’re alive. Aren’t you worried House Redoran will find out?”

Drelethyn snorted. “No. Fyr couldn’t be bothered to tell House Redoran I’m here, or even that I’m alive. If it doesn’t serve his personal interest, its a waste of time to him.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in him.”

“I have faith in how little he gives a damn. You’d be hard-pressed to find a man more utterly _apathetic_ about anything he’s not invested in.” 

Their conversation fell silent as the sound of approaching footsteps came from the hallway. Alfe appeared once more, and gestured for them to follow her with a curt wave of her hand. They walked quickly to catch up with her, following her through a hall of twisted roots and fungus walls. The floor slanted upwards, and the hallway ended in another bronze door that was pushed open to reveal the chambers beyond. 

There were three rooms that split from the central chamber, but S’en didn’t get a good look at any of them before they were ushered into the room on the right. It appeared to be a library, if the book-lined shelves were of any indication. Unlike the low ceilings of the halls and downstairs rooms that left S’en feeling almost claustrophobic, the ceiling of the library vaulted high above their heads, the roots that climbed up the walls branching like trees to coil and curl into complicated woven patterns. 

A Dunmer man stood in the room, attention focused on a book in his hand. He was donned entirely in strange black armor like none other S’en had ever seen. Something about its design was intimidating. He — who S’en could only assume was Divayth Fyr — wasn’t wearing a helmet, revealing someone who, while still visibly aged, looked far younger than she’d expect someone of four-thousand years to appear.

“Thank you Delte, Alfe, that will be all,” Divayth Fyr said, turning toward them but not looking up from his book until the ‘sisters’ had left. Placing the book on a nearby table, Divayth Fyr crossed his arms and raised a brow at Drelethyn.

“ _What?_ ” Drelethyn snapped, once the silence had stretched long enough to annoy him.

“A fake assassination, really?” Divayth said.

“Oh really, you’re going to _judge_ me on my method of ditching my responsibilities.” 

“I would have expected something a little more _creative_ from you in the least. But no, you chose something disappointingly boring.” 

“I— ugh, I don’t have _time_ for this. This isn’t a house call, we’re here for a reason.”

“Of course you are, I wouldn’t have let you in otherwise. I’m assuming it has something to do with whatever caused you to be stupid enough to falsify your own death in the first place.” 

Drelethyn made to habitually pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, the movement abandoned by S’en catching his arm. Right, broken. 

“We need to know whatever you know about Yagrum Bagarn,” Drelethyn said. Probably best to cut straight to the matter.

Suddenly, Divayth Fyr was looking hard at the both of them, his previous countenance shed for something far more serious.

“I may know something,” he said, “but I first need you to explain, very thoroughly, what this is about.”

 

✥

 

Three hours later found them each sitting around the table in the library, Drelethyn having just finished recounting the events that led them to where they were now. He’d left what had happened at Piran vague, allowing S’en to impart what little information she seemed willing to share, but by the end of it, the pieces to their conundrum — Cor Istec, her journal, the Sixth House, Fabrication, the Hanging Gardens of Wasten Coridale, Yagrum Bagarn — were laid out before Divayth Fyr, who had listened to the entire recounting without comment. 

“So we need to know what it is you know about Yagrum Bagarn,” Drelethyn concluded, “before we lose our minds any more than we already have, preferably.” 

Divayth remained quiet for a moment, hands folded and held before his mouth as he contemplated them.

“Let me see Istec’s journal,” he said finally, hand out. It wasn’t a question, and Drelethyn hesitated for a moment before carefully pulling her journal from his pack and placing it in Divayth’s armored hand. Despite this, Fyr’s touch was careful as he opened her journal and flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the words written there.

“Cor Istec,” he said. “That is not a name I’ve heard in a very long time.”

“You _knew_ her?” S’en asked, unable to contain herself. “You were _alive_ then?”

“I met her briefly once, a very, very long time ago,” Fyr said, ignoring the latter half of her question. “But I know plenty _of_ her. She was quite the topic of conversation in her time. Cor was responsible for a group of free-thinkers among the Dwemer, who — we later learned — were in defiance of the Numidium project and had grown deeply unpopular due to their philosophical differences with the Tonal Architects. Cor’s philosophy — Artificial philosophy — was a precursor to the Psijic Endeavor, or the belief that mortality is an ascension above the gods, and true enlightenment can only be obtained through overcoming the challenges of the mortal world. Considering the Tonal Architects were building the Numidium in an effort to step backwards toward what they considered their ‘lost divinity’, you can see where their theoretical differences lay.”

“One considered the Numidium damnation, the other the key to enlightenment,” Drelethyn summed up.

“What is the Numidium?” S’en asked.

“A giant robot, putting it simply,” Divayth Fyr explained. “It was supposed to be a Brass God, powered by the Heart of Lorkhan and created to return the Dwemer to the divine beings they claimed to be descended from. But that experiment failed, and the Dwemer instead vanished.”

The Heart of Lorkhan. There was that name again. S’en’s mind immediately recalled the great metal god from her… from _their_ dream, its pith alight with the stolen life of the dead who worshipped it. She peered over at Drelethyn, who returned her glance with a knowing look.

Was that what they had seen? The Numidium?

“So Cor was unpopular with the Tonal Architects,” Drelethyn said. “I’m still trying to figure out what that has to do with the Sixth House, and why Dagoth Ur is sending us these dreams.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Divayth said, closing Cor’s journal. “Cor Istec was one of Voryn Dagoth’s closest friends.”

They sat in a stunned silence for a moment. That hadn’t been expected.

“So whatever he’s having us chase…” Drelethyn said.

“It’s personal,” S’en concluded. 

“It is possible that Dagoth Ur is seeking closure after her execution. Closure to what is anyone’s guess,” Fyr said.

S’en pursed her lips together, then spoke again. “You still haven’t told us what you know about Yagrum Bagarn.”

Divayth Fyr looked at her properly for the first time that evening, as though only _just_ noticing she were even there. 

“Who is this?” he asked, the question apparently directed toward Drelethyn.

“This is S’en,” Drelethyn responded. “She’s just as involved in this as I am.”

The unspoken statement was obvious; _she is to be respected as I am._ Fyr raised a brow, but apparently had no protest now that introductions had been made.

“Well, you can certainly _try_ speaking with Yagrum,” Fyr said. 

“Speak to—” Drelethyn’s words halted as his mind caught up with what Fyr just said. He stood from his chair, palms planted on the table as he leaned forward. “You’re telling me that he’s _here? Alive!?_ ”

“Yes. Unfortunately, he has contracted Corprus, and has been staying as a guest of Tel Fyr in the corprusarium.”

“Why didn’t you _lead_ with that!?”

“You’re asking me why I didn’t let you bother one of my patients without knowing you had just reason? Please Drelethyn, I know you’re not a groveling idiot, so don’t ask me to point out the obvious to you.” 

Drelethyn sat back down and blinked. “Damn, I did not see that coming,” he murmured.

“This is good news though,” S’en said. “He may know what it is Cor has to do with this, with the Hanging Gardens and…” She cut herself off there, reluctant to mention the schematics they had seen Cor retrieve in front of Divayth Fyr.

“You may try to speak with him,” Fyr repeated. “I can’t assure you he will remember anything of use to you, however. Or that he will be agreeable. Corprus causes emotional instability.”

S’en frowned. “Wouldn’t he remember something that important?”

“Do you remember every detail of your childhood?” Fyr asked. “No, you don’t. And you’re what, forty, perhaps? Yagrum is as aged as I. With the sheer amount of information gathered over a lifetime, even important things slip the mind eventually. And that’s not considering the mind-damaging aspect of Corprus. In any case, you are welcome to ask him nonetheless. Tomorrow, however. I wouldn’t have you bothering him at this late hour. Beyte will lead you the guest room she’s prepared for your stay.” Fyr regarded Cor’s journal once more before picking it up and standing. “I’ll be keeping this for the evening — I’ve been in need of some engaging reading.” 

As though summoned, a third identical woman was suddenly standing in the doorway of the room, waiting for S’en and Drelethyn to follow her. Drelethyn turned to argue with Fyr about the journal, but felt S’en’s fingers wrap around his wrist and squeeze. She looked up at him from the corner of her eye and shook her head minutely. Huffing, he gave it up, following her as she pulled him from the room, trailing after Beyte. 

Divayth Fyr waited until the three of them were gone before once more looking inside Cor’s journal.

“Alfe,” he called.

There was a moment of silence, then Alfe walked into the room from where he’d known she’d been loitering in the hallway. Always too curious for her own good, that one.

“Is everything alright?” Alfe asked.

“Recite to me everything you remember about Cor Istec,” he ordered.

“Cor Istec was a Dwemer researcher stationed at Nchusal, who grew to prominence after discovering the Heart of Lorkhan in the sixth-hundred fifty-seventh year of the first era. Following her discovery, she was among the ranks of the Tonal Architects before leaving following a falling-out with High Tonal Architect Kagrenac. She was personal friends with Dagoth Ur and taught he and his brothers how to harness _creatia_ and perform Fabrication. She was executed under the order of Kagrenac, but you were not present for the fallout of that, as clan Fyr had defected from House Dagoth before that time.” The words were spoken automatically, as though she were reading aloud from a book rather than recalling her own memories. She paused, considering, then spoke again, this time in a normal tone. “What is Fabrication?”

Divayth Fyr held his hand out before him, palm up, and concentrated. Rosen light emitted from his fingers, then began to fold in on itself, turning and connecting with a mechanical precision, until it formed and faded, leaving a coin pinched between Divayth’s fingers, built from former nothingness. 

“A lost art from a lost order,” Divayth said, looking down once more at Cor’s journal, opened to the later pages, when her writing turned to something frenetic. “Thank you Alfe, that will be all.”

 

✥

 

“I can’t fathom that Yagrum Bagarn is _alive_ and _here,_ ” S’en said in disbelief.

They were in the guest room that purportedly had been prepared for them. It was a low-ceilinged room on the lower level of Tel Fyr, behind a large golden door that Drelethyn suspected may have been locked behind them as they were ushered inside. There was a bed, sitting cushions scattered across a rug around a low table, and another hearth with a fire crackling merrily in its belly. 

“Guess our luck can’t be _all_ bad,” Drelethyn commented as he put his rucksack down to lean against one of the walls. S’en had already abandoned her luggage and had wandered to the low table. Food was set out for them; two flat bowls of scuttle — a spiced beetle meat spread — paired with soft-boiled kwama egg and flatbread. A bottle of sujamma and two cups sat between the bowls. Drelethyn sat down on the edge of the bed, working at the laces of his bonemold boots. He pulled them off, then after a moment of consideration stripped the rest of his armor and outer travel gear off, leaving only his trousers on. He settled across from S’en, who’d already gotten to work on her food. It was only as he drew close enough to smell the aroma of the hot scuttle and egg that the hunger in his stomach made itself suddenly apparent.

“Do you think he will remember anything?” S’en asked, tearing a piece of flat bread in half and scooping at the scuttle with it.

“Bagarn? I don’t think so, but I’m hoping we can jog his memory some,” Drelethyn admitted. “Maybe seeing Cor’s journal or the _Hanging Gardens_ will bring it back to mind.”

“Anything he knows will be more than we have now,” she said. She paused to bite into her food, speaking again once she’d swallowed it down. “You weren’t kidding about Fyr being a pain in the ass.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Drelethyn said, prompting S’en to roll her eyes.

Their meal was finished over pleasant small talk. They doused the fire in the hearth afterward, leaving the plates stacked on the table as they found them. As S’en worked on removing her armor, stripping down to the cotton clothing she wore beneath, Drelethyn had a brief moment of concern about potentially making her uncomfortable. As she sat on the bed, he was about to ask her if it’d be better he slept on the floor, but the words were cut off by S’en grabbing the front of his shirt and bodily hauling him onto the bed. Caught off by her strength, he found himself laying on his side, face close enough to S’en’s that he could see the glint of her eyes in the dark, could feel her hair soft against his cheek. She smelled like smoke, sweat, and the ashlands. The moment stretched between them, her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, his own hand having fallen to cover hers when she’d grabbed him. He could feel the raised scars of tiny lacerations across her fingers and knuckles, criss crossing their way up to her wrists.

“Don’t be stupid, Drelethyn Venim,” she breathed, barely a whisper. With that she pulled the blankets over the both of them, then turned her back toward him, arm tucked beneath the pillow under her head. Drelethyn lay there, unsure of what to make of her words, the abrupt ending of the moment catching him off guard. He lay awake for a long time after that, thoughts a jumbled mess as he roughly shoved them to the side and tried to catch up on the sleep he so desperately needed.


	27. Ald'ruhn, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Wasten Coridale and want to support the story? Leave a kudos, comment, or recommend it to a friend!

It was late in the evening as Bolvyn waited impatiently within his office. His chambers inside under-Skar had no windows, but he could tell the hour by the weariness of his eyes, despite the invigorating spice of the frankencense incense that burned. He sat behind the desk of intricately polished wood, geometric florals of inlaid ebony and ivory, looking over the books that documented House affairs from decades ago he’d requested be pulled from the Records. Reading over the countless times that his foolish cousin neglected to seize the opportunity to elevate the standing of House Redoran on Morrowind, allowing their rival Houses to take advantage of them in the name of honor left Bolvyn ruminating over Drelethyn’s continued impact on the House, even past the “grave”. His loyalists still decried Bolvyn’s rule, as though Drelethyn hadn’t brought dishonor to Redoran through his weak leadership. 

By the time the expected knock came upon his door, Bolvyn had fallen into a distinctly foul mood. Closing the record book, he spoke.

“Enter.”

The door opened, allowing Idros Givyn to step into the office, donned in the Dwemer Redoranis armor worn by all members of the elite Venim Guard. Givyn was captain of the new Guard, which had been purged of loyalists to his cousin after Bolvyn came into office. A measure long overdue — the Guard had been formed by Bolvyn’s father, and served the office of the Archmaster. Drelethyn had no right to their loyalty, being neither his father’s son nor the Archmaster of House Redoran any longer. 

“ _Muthsera_ Archmaster Bolvyn Venim,” Givyn greeted, offering a deep _khena_ of respect. “To what do I deserve this honor?”

“You’re late,” Bolvyn snapped.

“My apologies, _serjo_. It will not happen again.” The response was quick and measured. Givyn was a man who was difficult to catch off guard, and while that normally would be a trait bothersome to Bolvyn, it would serve him well for this assignment.

“No, indeed, it won’t. Now. Tell me, Givyn, why do you serve the Guard as you do?”

“To protect and uphold the honor and dignity of House Redoran through service to the Archmaster, _serjo._ It is a responsibility I’m honored to have.” 

“And if I were to tell you that there is someone out there whose very presence would blacken the honor and dignity of the House?” 

“They would need to be dealt with.” Givyn frowned, uncertain. “Is there an issue, _muthsera?_ ”

“Yes, and one I’m assigning you to deal with. It has come to my attention through connections I have outside Ald’ruhn that my cousin, the former Archmaster of House Redoran, may be still alive.”

“Drelethyn Venim? Pardon me, but I thought he was killed by the _Ara-dra_.” 

“As did I, but it seems as though ‘conspired with the _Ara-dra_ and falsified his assassination’ may be along the lines of what actually occurred. A man by Drelethyn’s description was seen in Molag Mar travelling alongside a woman. Following an altercation in the slave market there, in which the woman attacked a slaver and, in his words, ‘tried to suck the life from him’, they fled into the Molag Amur. If Drelethyn is not dead, and this is true, then the former Archmaster of House Redoran is running about Vvardenfell with the _Ara-dra_ like a common criminal, having abandoned his responsibilities and all care for the wellbeing of his people. You can see why this cannot stand.”

Givyn was quiet for a long moment, as he thought over what Bolvyn had just told him.As outlandish the idea Bolvyn presented seemed, it had always seemed strange that after so many failed attempts on his life an assassin had finally managed to successfully reach and kill Drelethyn Venim. The man was too well known for surviving such attempts.

“You want me to see to it that Drelethyn Venim is indeed dead,” Givyn concluded.

“I want you to prevent a scandal from arising that could potentially cripple House Redoran,” Bolvyn said. “I trust you understand the severity of this moral threat.”

“I do, _muthsera._ I shall gather my men—”

“I think,” Bolvyn said sharply, “it is important that I impress upon you the secrecy this matter must be dealt with. On the matter of my cousin himself, you report only to me. To the knowledge of your men, you are looking for the _Ara-dra_. Our… intervention in Drelethyn’s affairs will ensure that the facts line up with public perception, and avoid bringing shame to House Redoran and to my clan whose name he’s slandered enough already. Drelethyn’s association with this woman only proves that though he is still alive, his judgement is clearly afflicted and he is no longer fit to serve in office. ”

“Understood, _muthsera_. I, as always, admire your dedication to House and clan — may we all seek to emulate it. Word of Drelethyn Venim’s treachery will reach no ears beyond my own. We will ride out to Molag Mar immediately and from there track their course.” Idros Givyn offered a deep _khena._ Bolvyn allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction in his choice of agent for this mission. Givyn was loyal to the office of the Archmaster, and Bolvyn had little uncertainty in the man’s faith in Bolvyn’s judgement. 

“Good man,” Bolvyn said, clapping Givyn on the shoulder. “I trust that my faith in you will be well-placed.” 

“They couldn’t have gone far,” Givyn said. “Not with the ash wastes as they are this time of year.”

And just like that, Bolvyn’s good mood soured. He fixed Givyn with a sharp glare. “Mark my words, captain,” he said, “you would do well to not underestimate my cousin. Drelethyn knows all too well how to navigate the ashlands. I want him dead, not you and your men dead. Hire a scout if you must. Now go.” 

Seeing he’d overstayed his welcome, Givyn offered another _khena_ before making himself scarce from the Archmaster’s office to go seek out his men and deliver the — much bemoaned — news that they were to prepare for immediate departure from Ald’ruhn.

It was only in the privacy of his mind, as he waited for the men and women under his watch to finish armoring up and gathering their travel rations, that Idros allowed himself to question whether or not this was a suicide mission.

 

✥

 

** Tel Fyr, 3E 415 **

 

S’en blinked, her vision fuzzy with the last vestiges of sleep. She scowled up at the ceiling for a moment, her mind trying to place the unfamiliar environment. As she realized she wasn’t in the tent where she expected to be she sat up, adrenaline alight in her veins. 

Something shifted beside her. Looking down, she saw the curve of Drelethyn’s shoulder, his back turned to her as he continued to sleep. She remembered, now, that they were in Tel Fyr. As the events of the night before came back to mind, she wondered what it was that had woken her up. 

Across the room, the golden door creaked as it was pushed open to reveal one of the Fyr sisters. She entered, a tray laden with food balanced on her forearm. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Beyte said cheerfully. “You’re welcome to enter the corpusarium soon as you’re ready. Yagrum is expecting you.” 

S’en felt distinctly awkward, as though she were caught doing something she shouldn’t, despite there being nothing suggestive about her sharing a bed with Drelethyn. As the woman wandered over to place the tray on the low table, S’en threw the bedclothes off and quickly stood, before planting a knee on the bed to give Drelethyn’s shoulder a hard shake.

“Hey, get up,” she said.

Drelethyn made a loud noise of protest, grumbling as he pushed his hair out of his face and glared at S’en. 

“It’s morning. Up,” S’en said, pulling away to let Drelethyn finish waking on his own. The Fyr sister had left, and S’en was more interested in the food she’d left behind than much else at the moment. It was a welcome reprieve from the scrib jerky and ash yams that had constituted all their rations as they’d travelled through the Molag Amur. 

“One of the sisters came in,” S’en said between bites of wickwheat bread, as Drelethyn got up and retrieved his shirt. “She said we can go talk to Yagrum when we’re ready.”

Drelethyn held up his shirt and frowned at the off white fabric, rubbing it between two fingers and kissing his teeth at the smudges of ash it left behind on his skin. 

“Good. Maybe we’ll finally get some answers,” he replied. He pulled his shirt on over his head, once more pushing his hair out of his eyes before he sat on the cushion across from S’en and tore off a chunk of the bread for himself. “You sleep alright?”

“Surprisingly. I didn’t dream at all, which was nice for a change.”

“Mmm, same.”

“Maybe that means we’re on the right trail,” S’en said. “Maybe Dagoth Ur will bother us less because we’re getting closer to whatever it is he’s trying to lead us to.” 

“’S possible. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing though.” Drelethyn scowled down at his bread. “I can’t help but wonder if we’re not aiding a devil with this whole endeavor.” 

“It’s too late to turn back now,” S’en said quietly. Drelethyn looked up to see she had pulled the talisman from where it’d been tucked beneath her shirt and was now looking down at the red stone. It glowed softly against her palm. “For me, at least. There’s too many questions I need answered.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving up either,” Drelethyn said, tone sympathetic. “My only other option is to be driven mad by the dreams and turn into one of those… _things_ we saw at Piran. I just wish it felt less like we were being shepherded into something unknown.” As he took a drink from the redware cup that had been set out alongside a clay jug of water, a thought occurred to him. “Hey, S’en. Your mentor, Serthi. Could he do what you can? With the life-stealing.” 

S’en seemed startled at him using the man’s name. She gave him a long look before nodding. “I learned it from him.” 

Drelethyn frowned. “That’s what I had thought. So Dagoth Mulis told you that your ‘Fabrication’ was a blessing from Lorkhan, and that it doesn’t come naturally to other people, right?” When S’en nodded again, Drelethyn continued; “How is it that Serthi knew how to use it, then? I doubt a dead god no one’s heard anything from since he was killed would be handing out blessings left and right. That’s more the Daedra’s lot.” 

S’en was quiet for a long moment, chewing at her lip as she thought. 

“I have no idea,” she said. “I’m not even sure if Reven knew much about it himself…Do you think Mulis might have been lying?” 

“I don’t know. But I think his word shouldn’t be trusted until we know more,” Drelethyn said.

S’en snorted. “I already wasn’t trusting it.”

She said that, but to himself Drelethyn thought she looked unnerved. He didn’t voice this, however, instead settling to finish the rest of his meal. 

They took a moment to collect their things, S’en putting her leathers and chitin back on and Drelethyn donning his bonemold and traveling armor. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he turned to see if S’en had everything before stepping out into the hallway.

Beyte was there, waiting for them. Drelethyn frowned, immediately suspicious of how much she may have heard. She gave no indication of it one way or another, simply inclining her head as they drew close.

“This way,” she said, gesturing for them to come along. 

They followed her through the large room that lay across the hall from the one they stayed in, empty aside form a planter that stood in the center of the room. She opened a door on the far wall, revealing a cave system. The air was hot and humid, smelling of a sweet decay that immediately caused S’en to recoil, a hand pressed to her nose. Beyte simply walked in, seemingly unaffected by the aroma.

“This place reeks of death,” S’en muttered to Drelethyn as they followed. She pulled up her ash scarf to cover her mouth and nose. It didn’t keep out the smell, but it helped lessen it.

“That’s how we know we’re in the right place,” Drelethyn quipped, but he had to agree, and followed S’en’s example of warding off the scent.

They followed Beyte through the cave tunnel, until they came to a rickety wood plank door that looked as though it were being held together by rusted nails and a prayer. Beside it, an Argonian leaned against the wall, giving them an apathetic look as they drew near. The torchlight caught on his scales and his plated armor, drawing long shadows across his reptilian features and twisting horns.

“Venim,” the Argonian greeted, his voice a low growl. “It has been some time.”

“Vistha-Kai,” Drelethyn greeted in return, his voice slightly muffled behind his scarf. “Can’t say I envy your job if it’s down here these days.”

The Argonian made a strange chuffing sound, akin to a laugh but not quite. 

“I am the Warden of the corpusarium. Don’t give me reason to do my job, and we will have no problems,” he replied. 

“Duly noted.”

Vistha-Kai pulled a key from around his neck and unlocked the ramshackle door. Beyte, Drelethyn realized, had left them at some point, apparently having deemed them to be Vistha-Kai’s problem now. The Argonian pushed the door open, gesturing for them to follow.

The smell of sweet decay grew only stronger as they walked in, gagging in its intensity. The door led to a large, low-ceilinged cavern. The air was hazy, thick and yellowed with sulfur. In the far end of the cavern, S’en saw something shambling, grotesquely deformed, slow in its movements. After watching it for a few moments, she realized in sudden horror that she was looking at a _person_. She instinctively took a step to the side, away from the lumbering figure, and bumped into Drelethyn. 

S’en had heard of Corprus. It was difficult to not hear of the disease when on Vvardenfell; a horrific illness created by Dagoth Ur and spread through the ashen blight storms that ravaged the land. She had heard of the deformities the disease wrought; of how apparently those ‘touched’ by the Sixth House would instead turn into what she now knew to be called Heartwights, creatures like Dagoth Mulis through some profane manipulation. Those the Sixth House did not welcome into their arms would be left to suffer, the pain of the disease ravaging their mind and body until they were left but a husk of their former selves.

She’d assumed, as she’d listened to the story alongside others in the South Wall, that the descriptions were exaggerated for effect. Now she knew them to be an understatement.

S’en wondered if they weren’t baiting death by simply being down here, and pressed her scarf more firmly to her face.

Not too far into the cave there stood a wooden platform, a bed and a wardrobe placed upon it. A woman leaned against the side of the wardrobe, watching their approach with crossed arms — S’en recognized her face as they drew close to be the same all the Fyr sisters shared. Beside the bed there stood Yagrum Bagarn. He was a shadow of the man they’d seen in the dream; his skin was sallow, bruised and covered in weeping lesions, his stomach unnaturally distended, as though something were bloating him from the inside. His spider-like metal leg prosthetics were the only thing about him left untouched by the Corprus.

As they drew near, the woman walked up to them, meeting them half-way.

“I am Uupse Fyr. That is Yagrum Bagarn; upset him and you _will_ leave immediately,” she said harshly, before offering Vistha-Kai a smile. “Thank you for seeing them here.”

The corprusarium warden simply nodded, then walked off to return to his post.

“Come then,” she said.

As they approached, Yagrum looked up from where he’d been fiddling with a pair of Dwemer boots. He set them aside and turned to face them.

“You are Yagrum Bagarn?” Drelethyn asked, offering a respectful but short _khena_ to the Dwemer man, who nodded in return.

“That would be me. The Last Living Dwemer. No, I’m not certain of the accuracy of that statement but I stylize myself that way nonetheless. I was told you sought to speak with me,” Yagrum said, hands laced together over his stomach as he regarded them.

“We were hoping you could help us with puzzling something out,” Drelethyn said, “if you’re willing to humor us.”

“If it’s about how the Dwemer disappeared, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. I was in an Outer Realm at the time, and returned to find my people had vanished completely.”

“It’s not about that,” Drelethyn said, though the information Yagrum had just offered was beyond intriguing. So whatever had caused the Dwemer to disappear was constrained to the mortal plane? Or was there an area of falloff? What variables had to have been met to determine who disappeared or not? Drelethyn shook his head, forcibly returning his thoughts to the topic on hand and not get distracted. “I don’t know what you know of Dagoth Ur these days.”

“I know that Voryn Dagoth lost his mind and is responsible for me being stuck in a useless flesh bag,” Yagrum said blandly, anger and distaste clear on his expression.

“Oh, well then, yes. That’s…” Drelethyn paused, trying to consider a better way to word what he was trying to say without outright telling Yagrum Bagarn that they were explicitly there to avoid turning into exactly what Yagrum himself had become. “We’ve been recipients of his dreams, and think that we may have an insight into what he wants, and perhaps how to avoid the situation becoming worse than it is, in regards to, well, everything. It led us to Nchuleftingth, where we found… sorry, one moment—”Drelethyn dropped his pack from his shoulder, crouching as he untied it and pulled _Hanging Gardens_ from it, “—this book, about Thumz-Nchulthand. We were wondering if you knew anything about it.”

“Yes, this book is written in both Aldmeris and in Dwemeris. Many books were written in both languages in the days of Resdayn when Dunmer and Dwemer ruled together peacefully. I'd offer to translate, but this is really just a boring travel guide,” Yagrum sniffed. “Not even to Thumz-Nchulthand, either, though it is mentioned. This is talking about the shoddy city the Altmer in the West named after our ancient citadel, with its inferior gardens. Wasten Coralale, I believe they called it. As though they thought they could match the ingenuity of the gilded cradle.”

“What of the original? Of Wasten Coridale?” Drelethyn pressed. “Does the city still exist?”

“I’m not…” Yagrum here had flipped to the back of the book, and was scrutinizing the hand-written passage Cor had left at the end of it, “… _properly misinterpreted_ …” Suddenly, Yagrum seemed to grow angry, glaring up at Drelethyn. “What’s all this about then!?” he snapped.

“We’re looking for answers about Cor Istec,” S’en explained, speaking gently. “She’s been at the core of the dreams we’ve been having. We think whatever connection there is between her and what Dagoth wants, it has something to do with the Hanging Gardens. You were friends with her, weren’t you?”

“Cor? I knew her well. We were seeking… there was…”

Yagrum seemed to be lost in thought, brow furrowed as he contemplated. He began to pace, muttering to himself as he flipped back and forth through the pages of the Hanging Gardens. Drelethyn heard Cor’s name among his utterings a few times.

“There was something… _properly_ … something important… what _was_ it?” Yagrum fell still for a long moment. He was agitated, whatever it was that he was trying to recall lurking just beyond the reaches of his memory. “It was _important_.”

“We think Cor was building something,” Drelethyn offered, tentatively. “An animunculus of some kind. She said something about how Kagrenac and the Numidium would lead you all to ruin.”

Yagrum bristled at Drelethyn’s words, and Drelethyn immediately cursed himself for saying what was clearly the wrong thing. As though his words had flipped a switch, the Dwemer immediately grew angered and closed off. He glared down at the Hanging Gardens as though it were mocking him before he closed the book with enough force to make Drelethyn wince.

“You ask what I remember about Cor Istec?” Yagrum snapped. “Cor was just as much the arrogant fool as Kagrenac was. Their folly is the reason why I stand here alone today, consigned to a bleak existence with no knowledge of what exactly happened to the rest of my people. Their argument wrought death and their theories will die with them if I have anything to say about it. So no, you will learn nothing of Cor Istec from me. I have nothing. Go away. Leave me in peace.”

Yagrum held out the Hanging Gardens to Drelethyn impatiently. Drelethyn accepted the book back from Yagrum, looking over it once before tucking it under his arm.

“Thank you for your time,” Drelethyn said as Uupse began to ungently usher them out.

“Go away,” Yagrum repeated, waving them off angrily.

They left the corprusarium to find Divayth Fyr waiting for them in the room beyond the copper door, Alfe by his side. He had Cor’s journal in hand, which he gave back to Drelethyn soon as the man walked up to him.

“Any luck?” Divayth said with the tone of voice that implied he was clearly aware that they had no luck whatsoever.

“You tell me,” Drelethyn grumbled, habitually checking over Cor’s journal to ensure no damage had been done. Divayth lifted a brow, but didn’t comment on Drelethyn’s distrust.

“I did,” Divayth said, smug. “Multiple times actually.”

Drelethyn just glared at him, before deeming the journal to be undamaged and carefully packing it away.

“I have more important matters to attend to, so I will leave you to your efforts to not lose your mind,” Divayth continued. “Best of luck with that. Let me know how it is faring for you next time you’re in the area.”

S’en scowled at Divayth’s back as the man disappeared down the hall. She’d had enough of the man’s blithe and repugnant sense of humor in the short time they’d been here, and frankly, would be glad to leave Tel Fyr behind them, along with all the disappointments and discomfort it held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be busy tabling at a comic convention this weekend, and this chapter's a bit on the short side, so here's an early update.


	28. Molag Amur Region, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some deliberation, I decided to post this chapter as is. Leave a comment, kudos, or recommend Wasten Coridale to a friend!

Leaving Tel Fyr was an unceremonious matter. With their stay clearly overwrought and them already carrying all they’d brought, S’en and Drelethyn left the _tel_ quickly, stopping only to retrieve their guar. This time they — and Auro — were granted a short gondola ride across the water, disposed back in the ashlands that spat them out. 

S’en and Drelethyn had stood on the shore for a moment, uncertain of where to go from here, before the guar had begun to shuffle off in some direction that they wordlessly decided to follow.

Their aimless wandering had taken them through the afternoon, Auro seemingly being the only one to have any destination in mind whatsoever. At moments, S’en felt the urge to break the heavy silence that hung over them, but couldn’t seem to muster the words, let alone think of what to say. Drelethyn seemed to be suffering the same dilemma, and the silence persevered.

Eventually the day turned late, and they stopped to set up camp beneath the curve of a rock outcropping. They pitched their tent, started a fire, ate more of the damned ash yams that S’en never wanted to see another of at this point, drank more of Drelethyn’s trama tea that she’d grown more fond of than she’d admit, and still S’en could think of nothing to say. 

The sky was unusually dustless that night, an inky black cut through by a myriad of stars and set against the heavy moons. S’en couldn’t recall a clearer night, and took the opportunity to lose herself in the beauty of it, laying on her back in the ash, her eyes fixed on the stars. She felt Drelethyn lie beside her, upside-down in comparison, his head beside her own.

It was a strange sort of resignation. They were so close to potentially uncovering whatever it was they’d been chasing all this time, only for the path to end stale with an angry, diseased amnesiac and the scribblings of a madwoman. There was, from any angle S’en looked at it, nothing they could do. There were no leads left to pursue, no mysteries to uncover. This was the end, leaving her – a former prostitute and unsanctioned assassin – lying on her back with the Archmaster in the ash wastes, staring at the stars. The lowest and highest that Redoran society had to offer, complete equals in the middle of nowhere, where none of it mattered.

She snorted at how ridiculous it struck her as.

“What’s so amusing?” Drelethyn prompted.

“All of this,” S’en replied, knowing it didn’t need any further explanation. From where he lay beside her, Drelethyn let out a low chuckle. The breaking of their silence was as though a veil had been lifted, and S’en suddenly was struck with the precious ability to speak that’d been lost to her all that afternoon.

“So, how did you end up with the journal of a scorned, controversial Dwemer philosopher anyway?” she asked. “That’s what my real question was going to be, earlier. Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you just find at a market stall.”

“No, it’s more the sort of thing that collectors stick a knife between someone’s ribs for,” he replied.

S’en felt him shift, but when she looked, his eyes were still trained on the stars.

“I wasn’t born in Baan Malur,” Drelethyn said. “I’m from Ald Velothi—it’s a small town here on Vvardenfell, up north of Ald’ruhn, near the coast. Boring place. Has absolutely nothing going for itself. I used to speak with this terrible accent… everyone in the Guard knew I was from this small _fetcher_ town. Took me months to parse it.” 

S’en laughed at the idea of Drelethyn speaking with a backwater slang; it was such a strange thought and yet she could see it so clearly.

He grinned at her, meeting her gaze briefly before looking up once more. “Anyway. Ald Velothi was built within easy walking distance from a Dwemer ruin. A small one, called Arkngthunch-Sturdumz. It was probably a research or trade outpost. When I was a little kid, bored as shit and lacking anything better to do, I’d spend my days poking about the upper levels of the ruin, where the animunculi hardly walked and where it was easy to run from the ones that did show up on occasion.

“I had been rummaging around the ruin for… oh, about a year or so, when I decided, ‘oi, I’m a strapping young lad of thirteen years, clearly old enough to fend for myself. It’s about time that I ought to do a proper excavation and delve into the deeper levels of this ruin.’ So I took this old dagger my father wouldn’t miss, packed up some rations, and set out for my ‘excavation.’” 

“You were _quite_ the daring child,” S’en said, light-hearted.

“Deluded is the word you’re looking for. I got about two rooms in when I was spotted by a sphere centurion. I immediately dropped my father’s dagger and made a run for it – managed to get away by crawling into an old ventilation shaft that the animunculus couldn’t get in. It gave me this to remember it by though.” He rolled up his sleeve, showing S’en a large burn scar that ran along the inside of his forearm, holding it up so she didn’t have to crane her neck at such an awkward angle. Very faded from centuries of age, but still visible. “Steam burn. Hurt like a bitch. But to my luck, as I was crawling through this dusty old shaft, I find this book that was just sitting there, forgotten. Written completely in Dwemeris. My first excavation and here I had found an authentic artifact.”

“A true ruin-delver, with battle-scars to show for it,” she commented, but even with the teasing in her tone she touched his scar lightly, expression sympathetic.

“That’s what I thought, but was my father ever _pissed_ at me. I didn’t care though. I was convinced that one thing would lead to another and I would become the next great Dwemer scholar, the man who discovered why they disappeared and what exactly happened!” Drelethyn emphasized his words with a fist raised in the air victoriously, only to let it drop to rest across his middle. “But against every intention, I ended up joining the Redoran Guard instead.”

“Who’s to say you won’t be?”

Drelethyn looked over to find S’en propped up on her elbow, her hair a dark curtain and eyes intensely bright in the firelight. 

_She really is beautiful._

The thought came from nowhere, or perhaps had always been there; regardless, it was the swell of affection that accompanied the thought that left Drelethyn stumped for a moment.

“Won’t be what?” he replied, the words delayed and nearly stuttered.

“The man who discovered what happened to the Dwemer. I mean, fetch it, we don’t need Yagrum Bagrum or whatever his name is. And this isn’t just about the dreams anymore. As far as we know, your book is the only surviving remains of Cor’s writing, and clearly she was up to something important. We’ve gotten this far. Perhaps we have the answers already and just need to read them right.” 

_Need to read them…_

_The correct words that must be properly misinterpreted._ Cor’s note at the end of _Hanging Gardens_. 

The final missing piece in his mind clicked into place.

Drelethyn shot up, the movement abrupt enough to startle S’en. He didn’t notice, his excitement making him deaf to anything but it.

“S’en!” He grasped her shoulders, a wide smile across his face. “That’s _it!”_

“What are you—!?”

“The words that need to be misinterpreted. We have the words, we just need to learn _how to read them._ ” He released her and began to rummage frantically through his rucksack as S’en looked on in bewildered concern. “Cor left a note in the end of the travel guide to the Hanging Gardens. Why would a travel guide be written, let alone translated, for a city that the Dwemer had famously abandoned? Or for a Dwemeris travel guide to be written for an Aldmer city named after it? It makes no sense, but it’s not supposed to because the book _doesn’t matter_. It’s a message, a reference to _her own writings_.”

Drelethyn pulled out Cor’s journal, the weakened bindings allowing the book to fall open in his palm. He flipped through the latter pages, where Cor’s script became less precise and more frenetic. 

“S’en!” He held out the journal toward her. “ _The words need to be properly misinterpreted._ Cor didn’t lose her mind — _it’s a code!_ You’re brilliant!!”

S’en let out a shriek as Drelethyn picked her up by the waist and twirled her about, laughing. She was laughing soon, too, between her demands that he put her down. He did, in time, but his excitement remained. He sat near the fire once more, flipping through the pages of the old weathered journal with a crooked smile. S’en now could fully see past the carefully curated facade of the Archmaster Redoran and see the bold, young boy who had explored the ruin in Drelethyn’s story. It was the most vulnerable — the most _authentic —_ she’d ever seen him, showing her the person she’d seen but a glimpse of when they discovered the _Hanging Gardens_ in Nchuleftingth. There was the Archmaster Drelethyn Venim Redoran and then there was Drelethyn Venim the man, two people who S’en had come to recognize as being very different from one another. As she settled down to watch him work over the firelight, the feelings of hope and something warm settled between her ribs. She felt it a gift, almost, to see Drelethyn Venim as she suspected no one had in decades, at least. For the first time throughout their travels through the ashlands, S’en became distinctly aware of feeling grateful that she had Drelethyn’s companionship — not as someone convenient to watch her back, but for who he was. 

She was happy to know him. It was a feeling she’d hadn’t had in a long time, one that used to belong to another. But Reven was dead, and with him the guilt S’en may have felt for these emotions finding a new catalyst. Instead she simply basked in the warmth of the moment, enjoying the reprieve from the exhaustion interspersed with mortal terror and momentary hopes that had been keeping them awake.

 

✥

 

Captain Idros Givyn and his men arrived in Molag Mar with little fanfare. Givyn himself hadn’t had the privilege of visiting Molag Mar before now; he’d been stationed primarily on the mainland in Baan Malur for his years as an initiate into the Venim Guard, only having come to Vvardenfell when the Redoran capital was moved to Ald’ruhn and he promoted to captain.Molag Mar was, relatively, small and unimpressive. An ash storm had been raging when they’d arrived, not the worst the townsfolk had seen apparently but worse than Givyn had ever seen in his days. He wondered what insanity possessed the people who lived here to stay in such an inhospitable place such as the Molag Amur.

The ash storm could only be distantly heard from where they were currently, tucked in the belly of the canton in The Pilgrim’s Rest. A few hours ago they’d paid visit to the Temple to speak to the slavers who suffered the attack by the _Ara-dra._ Only one had been able to speak, the other’s head wrapped in a swath of bandages, his face severely wounded from her life-stealing ability. The white-robe who’d been attending to him solemnly informed him of her uncertainty of whether the man would ever return to his former livelihood. The slaver who could speak was eager to tell them the horrors of her bizarre power, his own account similar enough to what he’d read of the _Ara-dra_ that he was certain it was her. There was no mention of a male accomplice, however; wherever Drelethyn Venim had been, it was elsewhere at the time of the attack. 

Givyn let out a sigh, putting down the cup he’d drank from.

“Describe to me, from what you remember, of what the alleged guar thief looked like,” Givyn said. The guar herder before him — the one Drelethyn Venim supposedly robbed — curled his lip and jabbed a finger at Givyn.

“There’s nothing _alleged_ ‘bout it,” the herder snapped. “The fetcher came into town earlier in the day. I don’t know when, just that I’d never seen him before, and Molag Mar’s small so you’d recognize a familiar face. He came up to me askin’ about one of my guar, and I told him to sod off and bother me after I was done with my game of _ketch._ Apparently the fetcher wasn’t feeling too patient because next I know he’s gone from town and one of my guar is too.” The herder took a drink of his _mazte_ , placing the small cup back down on the table with more force than Givyn found strictly necessary before refilling his cup from the decanter. “Just my luck the sod took the stupidest guar of the pack. Deserves every bit of hell that guar will be giving him, he does.” 

“Did he give you a name?” Given asked.

“Relos, Ramarys, Romoran — something with an R. Can’t remember it exactly, wasn’t listening much.”

“And — last question — did he seem to be travelling with anyone?”

“Not that I saw. Heard something about some woman, but didn’t see her myself.”

“Very well, you may go. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

The herder threw back the last of his cup and left. Givyn scrubbed at his face with a hand, letting out a frustrated sigh. So far, though Drelethyn travelling with a woman had been confirmed by the keeper at the hostel, her identity being that of the _Ara-dra_ was unable to be confirmed — nothing connected him to the attack other than incidental timing of him stealing the guar. He supposed the Archmaster wouldn’t care one way or another; Bolvyn Venim seemed convinced the two were connected, and technically Givyn’s only orders were to kill Drelethyn Venim and the _Ara-dra_ with him if she could not be captured alive. But if the _Ara-dra_ were not the woman travelling with Drelethyn, it would lead to Givyn being put in the position of having to explain to his men why the person they were pursuing wasn’t the _Ara-dra_ and her accomplice, risking the secrecy of the orders given to him. Furthermore, if the _Ara-dra_ wasn’t connected to Drelethyn directly, it could mean she were in the same location by chance, or was seeking to kill the former Archmaster herself — a situation Givyn was uncertain of how to feel about. If the former Archmaster weren’t the threat Bolvyn Venim painted him to be, then shouldn’t the _Ara-dra_ be priority? She was, after all, the more dangerous of the two in terms of lives on the line. 

_Duty to House above all_ , he reminded himself, as he scrubbed at his face once more and dropped his hand. Looking up, he spotted his Second, Valvera Nerolu, helping escort an elderly woman through the crowd to their table in the corner.

“She is a merchant, _sera_. She has a stall in the plaza near the slave market, where the attack happened,” Nerolu said.

“Thank you Valvera,” Givyn replied. His Second nodded and made sure that the woman was sat down on the wooden stool before stepping back.

“Such a commotion,” the elderly merchant said. “I say, this town hasn’t seen so much excitement in years.”

“That’s what we’re hoping to ask you about,” Givyn replied. He held the decanter up in offering. “Drink?”

“No, I’ll be alright without,” the woman said. Givyn was struck by the woman’s _unfriendliness_ as she gave him a cold look. Bothered by having her day interrupted, no doubt. She undid the tie on one of her long, thick braids, the white hairs stark against her grey skin as she began to undo the plaits. 

“Very well.” He put the decanter aside. “A little over a week ago there was an incident at the slave market where two slavers were attacked by a woman. She is described to be of middling height, of indeterminate race — merish —with short dark hair. Purportedly she was travelling with a Dunmer man. We wanted to ask if you had seen anyone of this description, possibly serviced them at one point?”

The woman squinted at him, her hands stilling, fingers tangled in her hair where she’d been redoing the plaits of her braid. 

“Plenty come by my stall,” she answered simply. “Pilgrims of all sorts.”

“Anyone of this description?” Givyn pressed.

“Pilgrims of all sorts,” the woman repeated simply. 

“Did you have anyone purchase anything from your stall around that time?”

“Everyone needs my wares. As I said, plenty come by my stall.” She re-tied the end of her braid and stood, apparently done with the conversation. “Good luck with your search, and don’t let the Molag Amur take you.” 

Givyn watched the woman go. He was, in his mind, wondering how to best draft a letter to Ald’ruhn explaining to the Archmaster that the trail had gone cold when Valvera slid into the seat across from his.

“She was telling us they went into the Molag Amur,” she said, stealing Givyn’s cup and the decanter to pour herself some _mazte._

“Are you certain?” Givyn said. He trusted Valvera’s judgement — she’d always been the sharpest among their ranks.

“Certain. Question is, what were they after out there? The Molag Amur will kill all but the most skilled scouts, especially during this time of year. What’s worth it enough for them to brave storms like that?” 

“What indeed,” Givyn muttered. He’d already known they’d gone into the Molag Amur and had hoped interviewing those they interacted with would give further insight as to _where_ , but he was left with about as much of an answer as he’d arrived in Molag Mar with. “I don’t you suppose you’d know of an experienced scout in these parts?”

Valvera gave him a wry smile. “I’ll ask around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wait, Elle, isn't Maar Gan the town Drelethyn is from?" 
> 
> Maar Gan was the town I had Drelethyn as being from, yes. That, however, was changed to Ald Velothi, as back in the first first draft of this he was originally from Ald Velothi, and Ald Velothi does actually have a Dwemer ruin right near it whereas Maar Gan does not. Also I wanted an opportunity to feature Maar Gan in this fic as it's my favorite town in Morrowind, which I wouldn't be able to do if I had it as being Drelethyn's hometown. Previous chapters were updated to reflect this change.


	29. Maar Gan, 3E 415

S’en and Drelethyn had, in time, returned to the west of Vvardenfell. Their travels lead them to Maar Gan, a small Redoran frontier town to the north of Ald’ruhn. While being House Redoran territory, the town was primarily inhabited by _Velothi_ who cared nothing for House politics, and by underpaid, overworked members of the Redoran Guard who were stationed there to protect the town from the constant threats that came from Red Mountain; Corprus monsters, ash spawn, and other monstrosities that sought to disturb the frontier town, a town that likely would have been left abandoned if it weren’t for it being a holy site. Built in the heart of the northwestern ashlands, in the shadow of the Ghostfence, Maar Gan was isolated and burdened enough by its own problems that the political gossip from across the Inner Sea was but a distant murmur. It was not a town that House Redoran sent anyone of importance to, which made it a town easy for Drelethyn to establish the identity of Drelos Romoran in without fear of being visibly recognized.

For the past two months they had been staying in the Maar Gan Outpost. Aside from Saryn Sarothil, the master-at-arms, and Alds Baro, the bone and ebonsmith who was responsible for maintaining the arms and armor of the Guard stationed there, the Outpost served primarily as a hostel for the members of the Redoran Guard who protected Maar Gan. S’en and Drelethyn had been granted a room without fee in return for the medicines for curing blight disease and balms for ash chafe that S’en had become skilled at crafting, as well as Drelethyn lending a hand in patrolling and defending the town. They brought no trouble, and so no one asked any prying questions, simply grateful for the additional aid. 

To S’en, these last two months has been like nothing she’d experienced before. Never before had she the chance to make an _honest_ living — there was nothing demeaning nor questionable about how she was affording to have a hot meal and a bed to fall into at the end of the day. This was the sort of life that, had she not fallen into thievery out of a familiar skill set when she had arrived on Vvardenfell, she would have sought to lead with the clean slate she’d been given upon fleeing Baan Malur.

She, for the first time in her memory, felt proud of the work she was doing. For once, she was helping. For once she was making things _better._ S’en didn’t know how she would be able to, but she knew that once everything was resolved, once she and Drelethyn were no longer under the threat of losing their minds to the dreams of the Sixth House, that this was a path she wanted to continue along.

It was with these musings that S’en walked back to Maar Gan, a small smile unknowingly on her lips. She had been out in the surrounding wastes, collecting more ash salts from the salt-rich soil in the region. When combined with scrib jelly, the ossein from the larval kwama, it made an adequate medicine for blight disease. It wasn’t a perfect recipe, but was the only any alchemist or apothecary had discovered thus far. The little help S’en could offer in a region plagued by the blight storms had been embraced by the townspeople, despite her being perceived as an outsider and outlander; Maar Gan had no healer living among them, and had lost the priest most knowledgeable in medicines a month before to an ash spawn attack. Apparently in the face of little other choice, the _Velothi_ were more accepting of aid from a non-Dunmer than one would expect. Most recently, the young son of Assi Serimilk had fallen ill from Black-Heart Blight, rendering him delirious, weakened, and bedridden. S’en was preparing a tincture to hopefully cure the boy, or in the least ease the worst of the illness enough for his body to fight it off.

The ash clouds hung low overhead, oppressive and dark enough to necessitate her carrying a lantern to help light the way. Maar Gan sat on a hill, tucked into the side of the tall volcanic crags that lined the _foyada_ Bani-Dad and surrounded by a tall wall of clay-covered baked brick. It was a small cluster of domed Redoran houses built of clay, barely enough to be called a town; settlement was possibly the more appropriate word. The ancestral banners sat limp on their rooftop spires, unmoving in the windless air that held the promise of a blight storm later, but not quite yet. On the nearest hill, S’en could see the Andus Tradehouse, smoke rising from its chimney, the Lorkhan scarab imprinted large on the curve of the building’s dome. She could never seem to escape that damned insect.

S’en let the flame in her lantern sputter out as she crossed beneath the archway that marked the entrance to the town, the lanterns hanging from the arches that crossed over the town’s modest main road enough to light her way. She stopped briefly at their room in the Outpost to retrieve the sack that held her alchemic instruments, loaned to her by the Temple for the duration of her stay. Drelethyn wasn’t there; where he had wandered off to was anyone’s guess. She’d had to awaken him from the ravages of another of Dagoth’s dream the night before, and it had left him irritable. Perhaps he was in the Andus Tradehouse working on translating Cor’s journal once more. He’d taken to working there during their time here, with more table space being available than in their room at the Outpost. 

The wind had begun to pick up as she walked to Assi Serimilk’s home. Assi opened the door after a single knock, clearly having been anxiously waiting for S’en to arrive. 

“Thank you so much for your help,” the woman said again, repeating herself from when S’en had been here earlier in the day.

“I’m happy to,” S’en replied. “Thanks aren’t needed.” Not needed, perhaps, but appreciated nonetheless. 

The hut, like nearly all small Redoran homes, was a single circular room with an open-bellied hearth in the center. Shelves holding pottery and sacks of grain and other foodstuffs sat against the wall nearest to the door. Delicately patterned hand-woven rugs of dull reds, bone-white, black, and burnt orange lay overlapping across the floor. A table and chairs sat beside the hearth, backed by a guar-skin privacy screen that separated the living space from where Assi and her son slept. S’en circled the hearth, walking to where their hammocks sat tucked against the back wall. The blankets had been stripped from one bed and piled atop the other. A weak cough emitted from a lump beneath the blanketed hammock, where Assi’s young son lay curled. S’en ran a comforting hand over his back as she sat on the stool beside his hammock.

“It seems his fever has gone down,” S’en commented. 

The boy’s skin was still waxy, a damp cloth on his forehead. S’en removed the now-warm cloth and wet it in the shallow water bowl that sat on the small table beside. The boy sighed gently as S’en laid the cloth on his warm skin once more.

“Would it be alright if I set up my supplies on the table?” S’en asked.

“Of course,” Assi said. She bustled over to the table to clear it of the pottery and plateware left from the last meal. S’en placed the sack atop the table, taking a moment to tie up her hair before pulling her retort and mortar and pestle from the overpacked burlap. Assi hovered nearby uncertainly, watching as S’en lit the fire beneath the retort, coaxing it to a controlled flame. She had prepared the scrib jelly the night before, the calcinator too bulky and process too time-consuming to make it worth doing here; the jelly had to be heated in the calcinator above boiling water for hours until it had lost its mucilage, rendering it dry and easily crushed into a fine powder. This she retrieved from a small leather pouch at her hip, the powdered jelly having been carefully stored in a paper parcel. She placed the packet aside without yet breaking the wax seal in favor of pouring the newly-collected ash salts into the mortar and began grinding it into a finer powder.

Once the salt had been powdered and combined with the scrib jelly, she stirred the mixture into a base of _mazte_ to make the tincture more palatable. Placing a redware cup at the mouth of the retort for the tincture to drip into, S’en loaded the retort with the drink and set it over the controlled flame to distill. With nothing left to do but wait, S’en turned to Assi and offered to make some tea.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, you’re a guest, I can—”

“I insist,” S’en said, gently coaxing the haggard woman to take a seat in the chair S’en had just been sitting in. S’en helped herself to borrowing Assi’s kettle where it sat on the hearth-lip, but used her own tea.

“How long will it take?” Assi asked as she accepted the steaming cup from S’en. It was a bitter brew, but did well to bolster one’s strength and restore energy. S’en sat on the chair across from her, one leg tucked underneath herself as she blew on her tea.

“For the tincture to be ready, or for your son to recover?” S’en asked in turn.

“Both, I suppose.”

“The tincture will be done within the half-hour,” S’en said. “Your son should regain his strength over the next two-or-so days. If he hasn’t shown any improvement by tomorrow morning, I’ll want you to come get me.”

Assi nodded. Sensing the woman’s distress, S’en engaged her in small-talk to try to distract her from her worries. Assi, S’en learned, worked at the Hairat-Vassamsi egg mine, where she herded the kwama and made sure the eggs weren’t laid too close to one another to grow properly, as well as mining the eggs that were ripe. The foreman was worried about the blight infecting the kwama, Assi said. If the swarm was infected, they would become hostile, and the miners would be forced to kill the blighted kwama and replace the queen if she too was infected. Apparently replacing a kwama queen was a trying ordeal — until they grew used to her scent, the remaining kwama would attempt to kill the new queen. That is, if there were any kwama left. The blight spread so quickly that they could end up having to regrow the entire mine. Maar Gan relied on the Hairat-Vassamsi mine to feed the town; without it, they would have to rely solely on the traders who came from Ald’ruhn to the south.

“I could attempt to create something that could help bolster the kwama’s resistance to blight,” S’en said, already turning it over in her mind. She wasn’t entirely sure what would be the best way to go about it, considering she had only made medicines for the townsfolk so far and certainly none for kwama, but it should be able to be done.

“We would appreciate it if you were to try,” Assi admitted. “Ushering the kwama inside and trying to ensure the mine is sealed every time a blight storm rises has made our work difficult, with the storms growing more frequent.” 

“I bet,” S’en said. Checking the retort, she saw that only the dredges remained. She pulled the cup from beneath the mouth, tilting the retort so that the last residues wouldn’t drop onto Assi’s tabletop.

S’en walked to Assi’s son’s bedside, his mother hovering nervously behind. Sitting on the edge of the bed, S’en gently touched the boy’s shoulder to rouse him.

“Hi there sweetheart,” S’en said gently when the boy’s eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. “I have something that’ll help you feel better. Can you sit up for me?”

Assi hurried to the other side of the hammock and helped support her son’s back as he struggled to get upright. The boy’s nose crinkled in disgust as he smelled the cup S’en held up to his mouth, but he determinedly drank the whole thing. He slumped back, letting his mother lay him back down and tuck him beneath the blankets. S’en replaced the cloth on his head once more. 

“He should be feeling better soon,” S’en said, standing. “If anything seems wrong, feel free to come get me at the Outpost, even if it’s late.” 

“Thank you _sera,_ ” Assi said, straightening.

“Of—” S’en’s words cut off as her attention was drawn to the dresser that sat in the corner created by the wall and the privacy screen. Atop it was a red candle, and next to it, a statue, painted red and black with the body of an urn and a strange, three-eyed face. The last she had seen statues such as that was in— “Piran,” S’en breathed.

“ _Our Lord waits for you,S’en of no clan._ ” Assi’s voice had suddenly grown flat, as though the words were being spoken through her lips but not by her. S’en looked at the woman to see her swaying slightly in place, eyes wide and glassy, sharing the same crazed look she had seen on Dreamers before. She had the knife that had been sitting on the hearth-lip in her hand, loose-gripped, the dull metal winking in the firelight. “ _Why have you denied him? The Sixth House has risen. All shall greet Dagoth… as flesh, or as dust._ ” 

A cold horror washed over S’en, and she backed away without thought. Her back hit the shelves behind her. Something toppled and fell, pottery shattering on the floor. S’en didn’t look to see what it was, cautiously watching Assi, worried for the sick boy who laid curled beneath the blankets. Should she call the guard? If she left or turned her back would Assi do something to her son? Is she why the boy was ill?

Suddenly the wooden hut door clattered violently, as though something heavy had been thrown against it. It drew Assi’s attention, and S’en used the moment of distraction to lunge forward and grapple her. The knife flew from Assi’s hand as they stumbled into the dresser, knocking the candle over and onto the floor, the flame sputtering dead in a splash of wax. Trapping one of the woman’s arms behind her back, S’en released Assi’s other hand to quickly strike at the back of her neck, seeking the cluster of nerves at the base of the skull. Her aim was true, and S’en had to catch Assi as she slumped, unconscious. 

S’en dragged Assi to the empty hammock, awkwardly dropping her halfway into the netting before grabbing her legs and hoisting them up to join the rest of her. Stepping back, S’en hovered for a moment. When she was certain Assi wouldn’t awaken, S’en looked over at the statue once more. It had fallen onto its side, face-down on the dresser top. The idol was heavy in S’en’s hands when she picked it up; she regarded it for a moment, her hands wrapped around its lower body. She took a few steps, eyes still fixed on the idol’s face. Then she swung. The statue hit the wall, the top half shattering apart from the impact. S’en dropped the remaining chunk of the statue to join the broken pieces on the floor before she retrieved the knife Assi had dropped and hurried to the door to see what had caused the sound.

The door wouldn’t move when she tried it, resisting as though something heavy had been braced against the other side. It budged as S’en gave it a good shove and shimmied her way through the small space she’d opened. Looking down, she saw a Dunmer slumped unconscious on the ground, clad in red-and-black robes embroidered with the Dagoth scarab, a strange cudgel loosely held in his grip. It was then she realized she was hearing the sounds of fighting. She kicked the cudgel from the unconscious Dunmer’s hand before hurrying toward the main square of the town.

The sound of shouting and the clash of weapons grew louder. Standing at the top of the stairs that led down from the arch she stood beneath to the town center, S’en could see where the bonemold-clad Redoran Guard clashed with the Sixth House cultists in their dark robes and clothing. She tried to pick Drelethyn out amid the crowd, but she had little time before there was a shout from the bottom of the stairs. A Dreamer charged up the steps toward S’en, cudgel raised with a war cry. S’en dodged out of the way, the heavy weapon kicking up a cloud of dust where she had just been standing. She backed up, watching carefully as the Dreamer hefted his weapon again, swinging broad at her. S’en quickly ducked to the side, then, using the man’s momentum against him, planted a foot in his back and sent him tumbling down the stairs. He hit himself in the head with the flat of his cudgel in the tumble, and he didn’t move when he came to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

S’en didn’t stop to see if the man was alive or not, taking the steps two at a time and hopping over the fallen Dreamer as she jogged toward the battle taking place in the town center. She saw a Sixth House cultist raise his weapon, about to hit a Guard who busy grappling another Dreamer in the back of the head. S’en launched herself at the cultist, clinging to his back and sinking her teeth into his shoulder as she grabbed at his raised arm. He shouted and lurched sideways, causing S’en to lose her grip. She fell to the ground heavily. Pushing herself to her feet, she saw the cultist abandon his cudgel in favor of a dagger, the blade wicked and strangely shaped. S’en strafed his first two attacks, retrieving Assi’s cooking knife where she’d tucked it in her belt, wishing that she had her daggers on hand for this.

She deflected the cultist’s dagger with the knife, using her other hand to deliver a hard punch to the man’s face. He turned at the last moment, her knuckles making contact with the sharpness of his cheekbone instead of his nose like she’d been aiming for. He staggered back, dagger poised in front of him as they circled one another, S’en’s attention split by trying to keep track of the battle around them so she wasn’t caught unawares. Flipping the knife in her grip, S’en shifted her weight. She lunged to strike— 

_WHY DO YOU RUN?_

S’en startled at the low, sensuous voice that suddenly filled her mind, loud and all-encompassing. She stumbled, losing her momentum. The cultist struck. She cried out as the blade of his dagger cut into the side of her ribs, and she twisted to get away before he could bury it further into her flesh. Hand pressed to her wound, she felt the blood run sticky between her fingers. She snarled, furious. Dodging the man’s next swing, she kicked out low, his next step tangling his feet around her ankle. He stumbled and fell to his knees. Her other foot snapped out, connecting brutally with his face, throwing him rolling to the side. She kicked him in the stomach, once, twice, causing him to curl in on himself before another blow to his temple knocked him cold.

S’en breathed heavily as she glared down at him. A feeling of self-disgust rose to sit uncomfortably in her stomach, disappointed in herself for resorting to the brutal sort of fighting she learned on the streets in her anger. The pain in her side flared with the next breath, and she grimaced, one hand on her knee as she pressed the other to her wound once more. The cut wasn’t deep as it could have been, but it was certainly bleeding profusely.

Looking up, S’en saw the Redoran Guard had gained the obvious advantage in the battle, with only a few Sixth House cultists remaining. She watched as one cultist sent a guard stumbling, using the moment of disengagement to try to grab another fallen cultist and sling him over his back. The attempt was quickly abandoned as the guard regained his balance, and the Sixth House cultist ran.

S’en caught the arm of a nearby guard and quietly asked her to check in on Assi and her son. The guard nodded, before telling S’en that she should sit down. The guard directed S’en over to the steps, where she sat heavily, leaning against the low clay wall that lined either side of the curved stairs. The battle was over now, she didn’t need to be on her feet and ready to fight anymore.

“S’en!”

She lifted her head at the sound of her name to see Drelethyn jogging towards her, sword in his hand. The guard S’en had just been speaking to was nearby — she must have told Drelethyn that S’en was over here. S’en offered him a weak smile.

“Hey,” she said. Her smile fell to a grimace as her side throbbed again.

“You’re hurt,” Drelethyn said, sheathing his sword and kneeling in front of her. She let him carefully lift her hand from her wound to take a look at it. He frowned, then placed her hand back. “Keep even pressure on that.”

“I _know_ ,” she said crankily. She felt bad for snapping immediately after, but Drelethyn seemed unfazed. 

“Let’s get you back to our room.” He helped her stand, one arm carefully around her shoulders as they staggered back to the Outpost. 

Their room was down the stairs that lay straight across from the front door, one of a number of near-identical rooms that lined the beneath-ground common room. Drelethyn apologetically let her lean against the wall for support as he quickly unlocked their room door and helped her onto the bed. She fell back with an uncontrolled flop, then groaned as her side throbbed, sending pain shooting throughout her torso and down her arms. Drelethyn sat on the edge of the bed.

“Can I take a look?” he asked, hands hovering uncertainly. At her nod, he undid the ties of her kurta. She lifted her hips so that he could pull the fabric up, leaving it bunched beneath her arms as he looked at the gash over her ribs. “You’re going to need stitches,” he said after a moment.

“I’m hoping that’s something you know how to do,” S’en said. 

“Yes,” Drelethyn said, “so long as you’re not picky about having the prettiest scar around.” 

S’en laughed weakly, the sound aborted quickly by her hissing between her teeth as she grit them against the pain.

“You’re awfully handy to have around, _Drelos Romoran_ ,” she teased, using the fake name he went by in Maar Gan. S’en was simply S’en, because, conveniently, no one knew who S’en was. Drelethyn stood, pulling his pack from where they had their excess luggage shoved beneath the bed. 

“Have to make it worth putting up with my personality somehow,” Drelethyn joked as he rifled through his stuff. 

“Stop that,” S’en said, weakly smacking at Drelethyn’s head. He raised a brow at her. She tried to smack him again, but he stood, and her hand made contact with his hip instead.

“You must be feeling better than I thought,” he teased as he sat on the bed again, a rolled up kit in his hands. He undid the clasp and let it unroll across the bed, revealing a field med-kit. It looked old, but well-maintained. 

“Is that from when you were in the Guard?” S’en asked. 

“From the war,” Drelethyn said. 

S’en lay still for a while, arms crossed over her stomach as she watched Drelethyn sterilize a needle with alcohol from a canteen. She took the canteen when he handed it to him, taking a generous drink from it. 

“Tell me about it,” she said softly, wiping her mouth against the back of the hand that held the canteen, the other still pressed to her side. 

“The war?” Drelethyn asked, not looking up from where he was working on threading the needle. 

“You’ve mentioned it a couple times,” S’en said. “It seems like it’s been on your mind.”

“Well, it _was_ the last I was on Vvardenfell, before these past two years. Guess it’s been in the back of my mind. You don’t want to hear about that though.”

“Why not?” she asked, lifting her hand when Drelethyn nudged it out of the way. She carefully stretched her arm above her head, letting him have a clear view of the wound. 

“Because the war was awful,” Drelethyn said. She hissed as he pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut, but his touch was careful. “A lot of people died. Civilians. People who shouldn’t have been in the line of fire at all.” 

“It was a House War, right?” S’en asked.

“Against House Hlaalu, yes. Balmora and Suran used to be Redoran cities, but we lost them in that war, along with the surrounding lands. There used to be a garrison barracks outside of Balmora — I was stationed there for a number of years. It was razed in the war. Keep drinking that.”

At Drelethyn’s instruction, S’en took another swig from the canteen, embracing how the burn of the alcohol down her throat numbed everything else in her body. He finally got the thread through the eye of the needle.

“You ready?” Drelethyn asked. 

S’en nodded, then grimaced. The needle piercing her skin felt like a sharp pinch, but it was the tugging sensation on her skin that was really uncomfortable. 

“Did Balmora look the same back then?” she asked, talking to distract herself, her words the slightest bit slurred with the influence of the liquor in her veins.

“Don’t move,” Drelethyn said reflexively, brow furrowed as he focused on what he was doing. “For the most part, it did. It was Hlaalu contractors who built the city in the first place. Their willingness to do it for a reasonable price probably should have been a red flag that they were planning on seizing those lands. They played the long game with that one.” 

“ _Fetchers_ ,” S’en said, eliciting a chuckle from Drelethyn. She grunted as the needle pierced her skin again.

“Almost done,” he said softly.

S’en laid still as Drelethyn finished the last of the stitches and tied the thread off. He helped her sit up and applied a healing balm before wrapping bandages around her ribcage. S’en watched his face as he worked, looking at the lines experience had left there, at the grey hairs beginning to show at his temples. The reflection of the firelight flickered in his eyes as he focused intently on the task at hand. On helping her, and expecting nothing in return. The emotion that had been lingering quietly between her ribs for the past few months swelled suddenly, overwhelming. Drelethyn noticed her staring, and gave her a puzzled look.

“Thank you,” she said, in lieu of the impulse lingering at the tip of her tongue. Drelethyn just shot her a charming smile before packing up the rest of his medical supplies.

“Any time.”

S’en pulled down her shirt, careful not to pull the new stitches, tying her sash and fastening her belt back around her waist.

“I’m surprised they managed to land a hit on you to be honest,” Drelethyn commented. S’en frowned.

“I was distracted,” S’en said. “I heard someone speaking in my mind. The same usual ‘why do you run?’ shit.” 

“Well, that’s great. Dagoth Ur knows we’re here then.” Drelethyn shoved the canvas medkit into his bag with more force than was needed, a grimace on his face.

“Do you think they attacked because we’re here?” S’en asked.

“Who knows? Supposedly Maar Gan’s been dealing with Sixth House raids for a while now, but I think our presence might attract more attention.”

“I think we should leave,” S’en said reluctantly. She didn’t _want_ to leave, at least not before they cracked the code, but… “The people here are kind. I don’t want to be the cause of any of their suffering.”

Drelethyn pursed his lips, then sighed, standing from where he’d been crouching beside his pack. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“Probably for the best,” he conceded. “We’ve been lingering too long.”

S’en nodded. She agreed, but it didn’t make her feel much better about it.


	30. The Ashlands Region, 3E 415

They left Maar Gan the following afternoon, as the shadows were beginning to grow long. S’en had visited the Temple before their departure to return the alchemical tools they had loaned her and leave behind some tinctures of blight medicine. The priests had offered to let her keep the tools as thanks for her aid and kindness, but she declined. They were too heavy to travel with, realistically. She did however accept the rations they offered once she told them they’d be traversing the Ashlands. The smith at the Maar Gan Outpost likewise insisted on seeing that their arms and armor was repaired before they left, leading to a later departure than they had intended. Even so, S’en would honestly miss Maar Gan and its people. Perhaps it was due to the _Velothi_ living among them that forced them to put aside their differences, or due to the constant dangers that threatened Maar Gan that the people were able to survive only due to the aid of outsiders both sent by House Redoran or simply hired for coin, but the people of Maar Gan were kinder and friendlier than anywhere else S’en had been in her life. They did not remind her that she was of impure blood, that she was an outcast within her own culture. She had offered whatever help she could, and they had accepted it with kindness of their own. To S’en, that alone was a gift. 

The sun was setting as they traveled through the _foyada_ Bani-Dad, darkening the sky to a delicate rose, the stars still barely visible in the earliest hours of twilight. The weather was agreeable, the sky clear of any ash and the wind gentle. The crags that made up the walls of the volcanic ravine were too high for the low sun to pierce, the rock cooling as the _foyada_ was cast in shadow. The guar trundled along at a steady pace, the paper lantern hanging from the _namon_ -banner attached to its flank lit and gently swaying with the guar’s steps. 

“Do you think we are doing the right thing by leaving Maar Gan?” S’en asked, looking at Drelethyn where he walked beside her, the guar’s lead in one hand as the other held his sword, his eyes scanning the sky for any cliff racers that sought to swoop down on them in hope of unsuspecting prey. The creatures were a plague upon Vvardenfell, known to swarm in truly horrifying numbers. They were more common in the Ashlands than they were in the Molag Amur, where the near-constant violent winds that kicked up sand and ash made it difficult for them to live. Drelethyn already had to fight off two of the damned creatures since their leaving Maar Gan, and they’d been only traveling a half-hour at most.

“I think so,” Drelethyn replied. “Those Dagoth cultists may be organizing raids regardless, but I suspect our being there would only draw more attention to Maar Gan if we had stayed, considering we’ve been singled out by Dagoth Ur himself.” 

“That’s true,” S’en said. She chewed on her lip.

“Worried about something?”

“Serimilk’s son. I would have liked to have seen him well before we left.” 

“You said he looked better, right?” Drelethyn said. S’en nodded. Assi herself had been put on house arrest until it could be ensured she was broken from Dagoth's influence; her son had been brought to stay at the Temple, and S'en had checked in on him before they left. “I’d say there’s nothing to worry about, then. You left behind more medicine anyhow. He’ll be cured in no time. Speaking of which, how is your side doing?”

S’en absently raised a hand to her own ribs, gently pressing where the cultist’s dagger had nicked her in the side, the wound still wrapped in bandages beneath her shirt. It throbbed faintly, but lacked the harsh sting.

“Healing well enough,” S’en said. She always had healed fast, something that seemingly had been permanently exacerbated by her use of Fabrication.

“That’s good,” he said. “We’ll have to be careful about changing the bandages out so you don’t get an infection from ash getting in there.”

A while later, they stopped so Drelethyn could relieve himself. As he wandered away for some semblance of privacy, S’en and Auro waited near a bubbling ash mire, the steam from the tar’s heat thick with the smell of sulfur. The sky had since clouded over, and a light dusting of ash began to fall. S’en picked at some fire fern absently, plucking the red blossoms and tucking them away in one of the designated pouches at her waist. By this time, S’en knew the flora of the ashlands most intimately, their properties and what uses could be alchemically extracted from them; fire petal for burns and protection against fire, trama root for bolstering one’s energy and lessening travel fatigue, ash salts and scrib jelly to treat blight disease, red and black lichen to treat more common diseases. It was useful knowledge, and certainly made surviving the Ashlands an easier feat than it was without it.

Drelethyn rejoined them, and this time mounted Auro’s back as they took off once more, S’en walking slightly ahead. The ash fall was heavier, but was still navigable, yet to reach the violence of a full-fledged storm. A long stretch of silence prompted S’en to look back at Drelethyn to find he had Cor’s journal in hand, paging through it as he chewed on a stick of scrib jerky. S’en’s curiosity mounted, and, when it became apparent that Drelethyn wasn’t succeeding in what he was doing, she felt it alright to interrupt him.

“How is the code-breaking coming along?” she asked.

“Poorly as ever,” Drelethyn said after a moment, closing the journal. “I’ve pinned down what cipher she’s likely using, but I lack the keyword to break it. I’ve been plugging in names and places that seem emphasized in her journal — the Hanging Gardens, Fabrication, Yagrum’s name, Wasten Coridale, the Dwemer name for Lorkhan, which is the same as ours just with the ‘or’ removed — but nothing’s worked so far.”

“Where did you learn to decipher, anyhow?” S’en asked. She paused, then took a guess. “The war?”

“No, actually. I learned to write and decipher these sorts of messages when I was a Second Councilor. But this is more complicated than anything I’ve handled before — I probably relied on Athyn a bit too heavily for this sort of thing. He was always better at it than I.” Did Drelethyn ever wish his friend were here right now. He had little doubt Athyn would figure it out, in far less time than it would take Drelethyn.

“Athyn?” 

“Councilor Athyn Sarethi,” Drelethyn clarified.

“Tell me about him.”

“About Athyn?”

“Yes.”

Drelethyn thought for a moment. “I feel like I’ve told you a lot more about myself and my past than you have yourself,” he commented.

“You’ve lived longer, seen things and met people that are actually interesting,” S’en pointed out. “I was an addict and a whore, then an assassin. All varying kinds of illegal. There’s not much to share.”

She stated it without shame, but Drelethyn immediately chastised himself for the oversight. Of course S’en didn’t share much about herself — there wasn’t much _to_ share outside of what Drelethyn already knew from the information he’d had gathered on S’en back when. And what there was to share Drelethyn immediately suspected wasn’t all that pleasant. 

“Athyn was my Second back when I was a Councilor,” Drelethyn said, pulling the conversation away from the uncomfortable direction it had taken. “He worked in House Redoran, but was primarily an agent and informant for the Morag Tong. He’s an incorrigible gossip and unnervingly good at collecting information. There’s little that happens in Baan Malur, or in any other Redoran territory for that matter, that he doesn’t somehow know about.”

“Do you think that he knows you’re still alive?” S’en asked. “Or where we are?”

The question made Drelethyn pause. He thought about it. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he suspected I am still living,” Drelethyn said, slowly. “And it’s certainly possible he knows where we are. But I know Athyn well; he wouldn’t rat us out even if he did know.”

“Do you trust him that much?”

“Athyn is an old friend and probably the only person I trust unequivocally,” Drelethyn said. “And besides, he hates my cousin Bolvyn about as much as I do. Even though Bolvyn’s the Archmaster now, any information that Bolvyn would benefit from having that Athyn doesn’t need to hand over for the greater good of the House is information Athyn is going to keep from him.”

S’en hummed thoughtfully. The thought of someone tracking their movements made her uncomfortable, but considering how paranoid Drelethyn normally was about this sort of thing, his own lack of concern over the thought of Sarethi knowing of them settled her own worries.

“Anyhow, I bet my belt’s worth that he’d know how to crack this, considering how extensive his informant network is, and how nearly every message he ever sends _is_ ciphered,” Drelethyn stated.

“I have faith you’ll figure it out,” S’en reassured. Drelethyn looked at her skeptically, but it didn’t escape her attention as he opened Cor’s journal once more with a renewed determination.

Drelethyn paused, then looked up, squinting at the ash fall.

“We’re going to want to find shelter from this soon enough. I doubt the weather is going to stay this agreeable for long,” he said. S’en nodded.

An off-road from the _foyada_ led them to the greater Ashlands region. Ash dunes rolled far as the eye could see, broken by spires of volcanic rock, petrified trees, mires, and the occasional cluster of flora that managed to bury their roots in the inhospitable landscape. The Ashlands were cooler than the Molag Amur — without the ever-present heat of the lava beneath the ground to form rivers and pools, what heat the ground absorbed from the sun during the day had quickly begun to fade as the sun started to set. 

S’en’s brow furrowed as she saw the shape of a building through the ash fall, far ahead of them. As they drew nearer, one became many, too faint to make out clearly.

“Drelethyn, is there supposed to be a city out here?” S’en asked.

“No,” Drelethyn said, the same wariness she felt in his tone. “Maar Gan is the only town this far out in the Ashlands.”

The land was dark beneath the heavy curtain of ash, the low sun blotted out completely. S’en took an unlit paper lantern they had hanging from a hook on the guar’s harness and lit it, holding it high as they drew close to the cluster of buildings.

They were ruins unlike any she had seen before. Tiered houses of clay brick and wooden beams, the walls worn away from wind and ash alike. Swaths of brick were stained black as though there had been a fire. The dunes entombed many of the ruins, their floors long since buried beneath the ash. Trama root and fire fern grew in the doorways, alongside crumbling brick, beneath the span of collapsing beams. S’en’s foot nudged something in the ash. She bent to pick it up. It was a shard of glazed pottery, slightly curved, no longer than S’en’s pointer finger. S’en rubbed her thumb along its surface, wiping the dust away to reveal it to be a pale rose, mottled with flecks of black and burnt red. The other side of the shard was rougher, blackened from when it had been fired in a kiln. An intricate design lined the blackened pottery, the pattern broken.

“These aren’t ruins from your war?” S’en asked quietly, the shard kept tucked in her palm as they cautiously walked through the ashen paths that were once streets of the ghost city. Something terrible had happened here. S’en wasn’t sure where her certainty of this was coming from, but she had a gut feeling she could not shake. Sorrow and anguish haunted these walls, speaking of razing, murder, and destruction. Of a terrible violence that tore the city asunder in its last days.

“Not from the House War,” Drelethyn replied, just as hushed, looking about with a solemn expression. “These are much, much older.”

They came across a relief wall, depicting two bearded figures facing one another, each with a hand raised, palms facing one another’s. The figures loomed strangely in the flickering lights of the lantern S’en held and the lantern on the guar’s _namon_ -banner pole. Their heavy jewelry and robes were decorated with rosettes; one had a goblet in hand and the other held a pomegranate. Above the mouth, their faces had been crudely gouged out, along with the space between their outstretched hands where there seemed to once be something there, destroying all telling of who the relief may have once depicted and leaving behind nothing but crumbling mud brick. Trama root shrubs sat clustered at the base of the wall, their thorny tangled branches threatening to prick at S’en’s shins as she stepped forward for a closer look. S’en trailed her fingers along the relief, tracing the petals of the carved rosettes and the folds of fabric, before her gaze wandered back to the destroyed faces. Once more, she turned over the piece of broken pottery in her hand. The glazed side winked in the lantern light.

S’en and Drelethyn continued along the ashen path that once served as the city street. A curve led them to a clearing among the buildings, from where they could see the breadth of the area around them. In the heart of the ruined city stood a ziggurat, rising high above the clay brick huts. The stronghold was squatter than that of Molag Mar, of a different architectural style. Huts and buildings of varying sizes sat atop the highest tier of the ziggurat, clustered around a central courtyard in which there stood a great cairn. Empty spires that once held banners long since shredded by the Ashlands winds rose from the roofs. Akin to the city that surrounded it, the ziggurat had been claimed by time and by the landscape, with ash having blown to create great dunes that consumed part of the walls, sloping from the highest tier down to the city below. However, the structure seemed to be mostly intact, spared from the ruin that had ravaged the city. Something about that set S’en more on edge than she already had been.

“S’en,” Drelethyn called. S’en looked over to where he stood a little ways down the road, their guar beside him, looking at something S’en couldn’t see from where she stood. As she jogged down the curve of the street to join them, she saw what it was that had caught Drelethyn’s eye.

From a bed of ash there rose hundreds of wooden stakes, carefully placed in rows stretching farther into the distance than she could see through the ash fall, some lost or toppled from the wind. Fire ferns grew intermittently from the ashen soil between the wooden markers. A string of worn bone beads stood slung over a marker near them. A cold horror crawled up her spine as S’en as realized they were looking at a makeshift mass grave, either too many bodies or too many left unrecognizable to have been properly interred and placed in family tombs in ancestral ash pits or urns. She unconsciously lifted her hand to cover her mouth. She had been right about this place.

Unbidden, the twisted, blackened corpses of House Llevaros came to mind, the sudden guilt settling heavy in her stomach, sickening. A cold sweat broke out across her skin. S’en shut her eyes tightly and breathed steadily, willing her suddenly pounding heart to slow, pushing the horrors from her mind’s eye. They were dead. It was her fault, but there was nothing she could do about it now. All she could do is continue forth and ensure it never happens again. She told herself these things, but it never did much to ease the ache, or the self-revulsion. 

The wind picked up, bone-chilling, and the further grave markers faded from view as the ash began to fall more heavily. 

“We need to find shelter,” S’en said, not wanting to linger a moment longer. Drelethyn nodded, looked around them, then began to lead the guar toward one of the less dilapidated huts away from the mass grave. This one still had much of its four walls intact, and was less buried than some of the others around it. S’en ducked in through the doorway, the door itself long since lost to time. The inside of the hut was unremarkable, the walls plain, the floor embedded beneath ash that piled in a drift along one wall. Along another sat a hearth, partially buried. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, one broken and leaning on the floor, its other end still connected to the wall. The roof itself was gone, the wood it was likely built of long since lost, burned, or stolen. 

Drelethyn came in behind her, having paused to tether Auro up nearby, their tent tucked under one arm and their packs gripped by the straps in his other hand. He dropped their packs in a corner by the door and began setting up the tent, the walls of the ruins high enough to spare them from the worst of the buffeting wind but lacking overhead shelter. S’en wondered if the hearth were functional enough, and busied herself with uncovering it with her hand that wasn’t still holding the lantern. The ash moved easily enough, lazily floating in the air as it was disturbed. Her fingers brushed against something in the wall — a design, etched into the baked clay above the hearth. She put her lantern on the ground beside her, digging it into the ash a little to ensure it wouldn’t tip over. S’en used both hands to brush away the rest of the piled ash and then her sleeve to scrub the remains from the wall, uncovering the shallow design barely visible there. S’en picked up the lantern and held it up so she could see the design clearly, the dyed paper of the lantern casting a pale red light. Her breath caught in her throat. 

“Drelethyn,” she said.

“One moment,” he responded, still fiddling with the fastenings on the waxed canvas of the tent.

“Drelethyn,” she said again, “come look at this.” 

Drelethyn must have heard the urgency in her tone that time, as he abandoned his efforts with the tarp to come crouch beside her.

“What is the—” His voice trailed off as he looked at what S’en had just uncovered.

There, chiseled into the hearth, old and worn from age yet still clear, was the Two-Scarab symbol of the Sixth House. 

“This was a city of House Dagoth,” S’en said quietly.


	31. Kogoruhn, 3E 415

The hearth crackled, firelight bright in the dim of the ruin. The smell of spiced meat roasting filled the space around them, the bantam guar they’d caught earlier that day cooking on a makeshift spit. S’en sat cross legged before the fire, idly poking at the roast with a long-handled fork to rotate it as she looked up at the Dagoth scarab relief that decorated the clay hearth. Behind her, Drelethyn had just finished setting up the tent and was sorting his hastily packed things into something more organized.

Kogoruhn. The capital city of House Dagoth, long since lost to the ages after its fall in the wake of the Battle of Red Mountain, the same battle that led to the disappearance of the Dwemer. That’s what Drelethyn said he thought this place was.

“Are you certain?” S’en had asked.

“A city of this size? Can’t think of what else it would be,” he had replied solemnly. 

Which left S’en wondering if they’d wandered here by chance or if this was simply another step in the path they’d been unwittingly dragged along this entire time. It sat ill with her, a deep frustration mounting as she felt less and less in control of her own decisions. It was as though she couldn’t even protect her most private thoughts.

S’en, in the least, had some faith that they weren’t in danger, camping out in the ruins of Kogoruhn as they were. If Dagoth Ur wanted them dead, S’en was certain they would have died in Piran. But instead Dagoth Mulis had let them escape, undoubtedly because Ur had told him to. 

Their being here would certainly would keep the Dreamers from seeking out Maar Gan again, if that was their motivation, considering S’en and Drelethyn had come straight to them.

She poked at the bantam roast again before deciding it was done and carefully removing the spit from the fire. They didn’t have a platter or some other pottery that was large enough to hold the bantam, small as it was, leading S’en to place it atop the bowl she had. It looked absurd, but it worked well enough as she carved the meat off and stuck it in Drelethyn’s bowl, his made of glazed pottery of a deep red, certainly fancier than S’en’s terracotta dish. Once the roast was stripped mostly to the bone, she tossed the rest into the fire to burn down. Picking up Drelethyn’s bowl, she tilted it over her own, using her chopsticks to scoop roughly an even portion into her bowl.

Drelethyn was sitting by the tent, journal open once more on his lap, reading by the light of the lantern hanging from the tent pole that held the canvas at its peak. He was smoking his pipe, the smell of the aromatic smoke mixing with the spice of the food. He looked up as S’en approached, holding out his bowl to him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the ceramic dish in both hands. S’en sat beside him as he leaned over awkwardly to fish his chopsticks from his bag. 

“Any luck?” S’en asked, nodding toward the journal. She plucked a piece of meat from her bowl. It was moist with fat, the skin stiff from the spices and blackened by the fire. She popped it in her mouth, savoring the taste and the pleasure of how it _wasn’t_ an ash yam.

“Just reading over the parts I’ve got translated again,” Drelethyn said. “Trying to see if there’s something I missed that could be the cipher key, but nothing is standing out.”

“Hmm.” S’en tapped her chopsticks against the side of her bowl, elbow on her knee and cheek resting against her knuckles as she thought. “It’s a word you’re looking for, right?” 

“Yes. This cipher works with each letter being found by cross-referencing on a chart,” Drelethyn explained. “A repeating key word would have been used to encrypt the message in the first place. If I _had_ the key word this would be fairly simple to crack — time consuming, but doable — but without it, it is pretty much impossible to unravel, considering one letter could be changed to any other depending on the pattern of the encryption.” 

“And you’ve already tried…?”

Drelethyn picked up a piece of paper he had folded and tucked beneath his knee. He read from it. “Wasten Coridale, Lorkhan, LKHAN, Thumz-Nchulthand, Cor, Cor Istec, Istec, Heart, Schematic, Animunculus, Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, Yagrum, Yagrum Bagarn, Bagarn, Nchuleftingth, Arkngthand-Sturdumz—” He cut himself off there, though there were many more words on the page, and glared at the journal. “This is assuming the key is in Dwemeris and not some other language. And that it’s somehow related to any of this and isn’t just some arbitrary word.” 

“[Well I doubt it’s the latter, considering she seems to have set this up for someone to find.] Try ‘Kogoruhn’,” S’en suggested absently, picking at her food again. They had ended up here in Kogoruhn for some reason. If it weren’t chance, then it better at least be helpful.

Drelethyn raised a brow, then checked the paper again — presumably to make sure he hadn’t already tried that — then hummed, his brow furrowed. He dug through his pack for a new sheet of paper, using one hand to draw up a rough table with letters organized in rows and columns, his other hand occupied by his chopsticks as he distractedly ate. S’en watched in interest as he copied down a passage from Cor’s journal and above it wrote a series of repeating symbols that she assumed spelled _Kogoruhn_ , one letter coordinating to another from the original passage beneath it. Then he returned his attention back to his chart, finger tracing over a row of the symbols and then the column it intersected with, before he wrote a third symbol above the two lines of words he’d written out. 

S’en for not the first time wished she could read what he was doing and that she could be of more help. Instead she finished off her food, cleaned the remnants of grease out from her bowl, and set to brewing some tea. 

She was absently tidying up her things when she heard Drelethyn make a sound. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him look from the page he was working on, to the chart, and back, before haphazardly shoving his chopsticks in his bowl, unheeding as they tipped over onto the ash. He dug through his pack, pulling from it the _Hanging Gardens_ and flipping through the book quickly. He picked up his working page, running his finger down the page open in the _Hanging Gardens,_ before flipping to the next page. Halfway through reading, his eyes widened.

“ _B’vek_ ,” he swore, quietly.

“Was that it?” S’en said, in disbelief. 

“Kogoruhn was it,” Drelethyn said.

“No,” S’en said. “Really!?”

“That was it. That was the key.” Drelethyn looked up at her, a wide grin on his face. 

“Aralor be damned,” S’en said, going to Drelethyn’s side to look at the page he held. True to his word, there was the string of letters he’d deciphered, matching up to a word in the Dwemeris section of _Hanging Gardens._ “We figured it out.”

“We cracked the damn thing!” Drelethyn let out a victorious laugh. Throwing his hands above his head, he flopped backwards, the ash billowing in a cloud around him.

Drelethyn’s joy made her return his smile, but it didn’t do much to settle the uncomfortable feeling in S’en’s stomach. She didn’t like that their being at Kogoruhn seemed to be intentional.

It was late, but excited as he was, it was obvious Drelethyn planned on working through the night. S’en sought to stay up with him and keep him company for a while, but after the third yawn she suppressed, he insisted she get some rest.

“This is going to be boring to watch anyway,” Drelethyn said. “The interesting part will be when it’s done.”

With that, S’en unrolled her bedroll and removed her chitin armor and leather cuirass, though after a moment’s consideration kept her leg armor on. Laying on her side, she tossed the thin blanket over herself and rest her head on the crook of her arm, willing the sweet unthinking respite of sleep to take her, taking comfort in the familiarity of the smell of Drelethyn’s pipe and his presence nearby.

 

✥

 

_The distant deep toll of bells, echoing in a haunting chorus, harmonizing with voices she couldn’t quite hear but knew were there. She was surrounded by the destruction of Kogoruhn, the buildings on fire and the air ripe with screams. The stench of burning flesh was carried on the wind, making it hard to breathe. She saw a little boy run by, his red eyes wide with terror and wet with tears. She reached out to try and help him, but he could not hear her, and her hand passed through him. S’en watched in horror as a soldier rounded the corner, stopping the young boy in his tracks. The boy stood frozen as the soldier lifted his sword—_

_A hand covered her eyes. The sounds and smells of Kogoruhn’s terror vanished, replaced by the feeling of being surrounded, held safe, held warm. The breath of another, the blood of another, the blood of Red Mountain. Love, rage. Sacred and profane. Pain, so ancient, aching like an old wound, healed but still hurting._

_Again, again, again, again, again, again—_

_Iridescent wings and dark ebony._

**_THUDUM, THUDUM._ **

_This time she was able to make sense of it, the presence that surrounded her, knowing what — who — was here with her. She wasn’t scared, though some part of her felt she should be. She looked, and in her looking something [manifested] to be looked at._

_Ebony formed hands, arms disappearing into shadow that shaped itself, part Mer, part Scarab, as though it could not decide which it ought to be._

_“Lorkhan,” she said._

_The scarab-shadow smiled, so beautiful it took her breath away. Her hands were held between His own. She didn’t make to pull away, simply looking down at their joined hands, ebony warm beneath her touch._

_“Why us?” she asked._

_Lorkhan’s smile vanished, his face a featureless shadow once more. He didn’t reply._

_“Did Dagoth Ur send us to find you, or did you tell him to find us?”_

_No response._

_“You want us to uncover what Cor hid,” S’en tried._

_Lorkhan didn’t answer, just looking at her, though she could not see his eyes, presuming he had eyes. S’en peered at Him, trying to find a face among the ever-shifting darkness._

_“What do you want?” she asked, finally._

_That, finally, seemed to be the right question. He smiled again, and spoke:_

**“** Wake up, S’en. **”**

 

✥

 

S’en jolted awake immediately, her body in a cold sweat. Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to ground herself and calm her heart’s racing. Something lay warm against her breastbone. Placing her hand over the spot, she felt the shape of Reven’s talisman. She sat up and tugged at the cord, pulling the talisman from under her shirt. The red stone glowed softly from the metal framework it was caged in, near-hot in her palm. It pulsed, the light flaring with each beat. Then, it faded, and fell quiet. 

S’en pulled the cord from around her neck and held the talisman aloft, letting it hang in front of her face as she scrutinized it closely. With one finger, she tapped the stone, but it did nothing. The uneasiness S’en had felt before she’d fallen asleep returned. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped the cord back over her head, not bothering to tuck it back into her shirt.

She leaned forward, peering past the canvas of the tent, up at the sky through the wooden beams of the ruin. It was pale pink with just the faintest hints of morning. Her skin was still cool from the night air. Drelethyn was sitting near the tent, seemingly having barely moved throughout the night. She threw off her blanket and crawled out from the tent, intent on telling him what she’d just seen in her dream, and the talisman’s strange reaction, but as she sat beside him the words at the tip of her tongue died.

“You finished it,” S’en said instead as she looked at the pages he had in front of him, covered in carefully transcribed letters, the charcoal smeared slightly in places.

“Yes,” Drelethyn looked at the pages, his expression peculiarly neutral, none of his earlier excitement there. Instead he seemed resigned, almost.

“Wh… what does it say?” S’en was almost nervous to ask, his unexpected solemness throwing her.

“It seems to be instructions to activate a… machine? The words say ‘life force’ but the context suggests it is something else entirely…” Drelethyn trailed off, scrutinizing the words on the page. “There’s some sort of… key, apparently. The actual word has the root words for both ‘non-functioning’— as in a machine — ‘unlock’, and ‘heart’ here so the _exact_ meaning is a bit lost in translation.” 

“Instructions… we were right, she left this for someone to find. She _expected_ us,” S’en said. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel. “Do you think the machine is the one we saw her schematics for?”

“I’d bet my sword arm on it,” Drelethyn replied. “Whatever it is she built, she wrote here that she hid it away in Wasten Coridale with the help of Yagrum Bagarn, sealed by the ‘Trials of the Hanging Gardens’, so High Tonal Architect Kagrenac couldn’t find it.” At the mention of the Trials, he made air quotes with his fingers.

“I knew he wasn’t telling us everything.” 

“Yagrum didn’t tell us _anything_ if we’re going to be honest.” He flipped irritably through his translation notes, brow furrowed. “Of course, there is no mention of what these Trials _are_ , or why they would keep the Tonal Architects out.”

S’en chewed on her lip, trying to make sense of it all in her mind. “Alright, so we know that Cor built this… _whatever it is_ , in response to the Nu… giant robot the Tonal Architect was building.”

Drelethyn nodded. “The Numidium.”

S’en snapped her fingers. “ _Yes_. That. So her journal is saying that she wants us to find this broken-heart-unlocking-key thing, _go_ to Wasten Coridale somehow, and activate this thing, _because_ …?”

“Well, for us, because it might get Dagoth Ur to shut up.” Drelethyn glanced around as he said that, as though he expected Sixth House cultists to appear and chastise him for saying that in the ruins of Dagoth’s own city.

“But Cor doesn’t explain what it is,” S’en said, “or what it’s for.” 

“She talks about it as some sort of life source, or a life-support machine. It sounds as though it’s keeping _something_ alive.”

_Alive._

The talisman pulsed once more. A deep feeling of discomfort settled over S’en as a thought came to mind.

“Drelethyn, you don’t think—”

“No.” Drelethyn shook his head, but he didn’t sound confident in his own words. S’en didn’t have to ask to know that he had the same exact thought as her. “There’s no way that’s possible.”

“Drelethyn, _think about it._ Think of everything we’ve uncovered so far.”

“S’en, it’s _not possible—_ ”

“It’s _unheard_ of. That’s what Yagrum said to Cor. Who else do you think they were talking about that whole time? Who the ‘He’—” she made air quotes with her fingers, mimicking him from earlier, “—they mentioned was? All of these things, the Sixth House, the Heartwights, creatia, the Dwemer, Wasten Coridale, you, _me —_ they all have one thing in common, one thing that connects all of it.”

They looked at one another, the implications of S’en’s words heavy between them.

“Lorkhan,” Drelethyn conceded, reluctantly. The name was softly spoken, almost a murmur.

“A dead god who _might not be as dead as we thought_ ,” S’en said, harkening back to Drelethyn’s own words, spoken in the aftermath of Piran. “If this thing Cor built is a _life support machine_ , what— _who_ else could it be for?”

Silence stretched between them as they both looked down at the pages spread across the blanket on the ground. Drelethyn’s fingers drummed nervously against his knee. He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep breath as he crossed his other arm over his chest. His hand dropped to press against his mouth, palm to his lips, expression conflicted.

“ _N’chow,_ ” he swore.

“I could be wrong—” S’en started, suddenly desperate to bury the revelation she’d just laid out in the open.

“Doubt it,” Drelethyn said. He shook his head. “I can’t tell what’s more absurd, the fact that we’re sitting here discussing the possibility having uncovered instructions on _how to resurrect god_ or the fact that this seems like the most _reasonable conclusion_ we could have come to.” 

S’en was abruptly overwhelmed with the feeling of being lost, too far in over her head. “What do we do?” she asked quietly.

“What do you _want_ to do?” Drelethyn replied, looking at her.

“I don’t know. I wanted an answer to the dreams so that I could sleep and not lose my saints-damned mind, and what I got instead was… _all of this._ I feel like we’re further from our original goal than ever and yet…” She swallowed thickly. “I don’t think we can turn back now. But if we do this, what happens then? It’s like you said, who’s to say that we’re not helping the enemy here? I mean, what do we know about Lorkhan? Is he evil? Is he kind? Are we damning people to suffering if it turns out we’re _right?_ Why does Dagoth Ur want this thing to be activated?”

“I want to say I don’t feel as though Cor had ill-intentions,” Drelethyn said, “but she _was_ persecuted for having dangerous ideas, perhaps rightfully. And Yagrum’s account of her wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.”

“But if we do nothing about this, then we continue having dreams. And we turn into Heartwights, or fall under Ur’s influence anyhow, and end up like those Sixth House cultists.”

“And there’s nothing to say Ur wouldn’t just _make_ us find and activate this thing if that happens,” Drelethyn pointed out. “We might be facing the inevitable here.”

S’en let out a loud groan of frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. “Well that’s just _fetching_ lovely! We don’t get a say in any of this!”

“I think we haven’t had a say for a while, if we’re honest with ourselves,” Drelethyn said. “If we had a _say_ in the first place, I’d still be in Baan Malur.” 

S’en tilted her head back, leaning her weight on her arms behind her as she stared angrily at the sky. So much for freedom _._ She recalled standing in Gnaar Mok when she first arrived on Vvardenfell, overwhelmed by the realization that she could do anything, go anywhere, that no one would know who she was or anything about her past. The memory of that fear-tinted elation rang hollow now. She’d still been playing directly into someone else’s hands; she just hadn’t realized it yet at the time. Fury burned in her pith. She wanted to punch something, to tear into it, but had nothing worth taking her wrath out on. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing the anger within her to fade with each exhale, trying to clear her mind so she could think without emotion tainting her thoughts as she mulled over the information they had uncovered and the circumstances surrounding them. 

“Okay.” She opened her eyes. 

“Okay?”

“I think we should continue on this path,” S’en clarified, lifting her head to look at Drelethyn. He had stood, and was now pacing, a habit S’en noticed he had when he was deep in troubled thought. “Like you said, there’s a good chance we’ll end up doing this anyhow, so it’d be better if we can do it while we still have _some_ control over our actions and thoughts.”

Drelethyn scowled. “I don’t get what I have to do with this. You’re a _shezzarine_ apparently, at least you being involved makes _sense_.” 

“You had Cor’s journal,” S’en pointed out. “Not to mention you are — _were_ — the Archmaster of a House that literally has Lorkhan as their symbol.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “When you put it like that, it makes me wonder how long they’ve been pulling the strings.”

Well. That was certainly not something S’en wanted to think about more than it already had haunted her the night before. She pulled her legs up and crossed her arms over her knees, looking at the papers again. Drelethyn sat down heavily beside her, his fingers tangled together. He looked at her over the curve of his hunched shoulder.

“You alright?” he asked.

“No,” she sighed, “but it’s not like we have much of an option anymore.” After a moment of hesitation, she leaned against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. He didn’t push her away. She bit her lip, worrying at the flesh there with her teeth. “I had another dream last night.”

“You did?”

“Mmhmm. I saw the razing of Kogoruhn.” Her throat grew tight as she spoke. S’en felt tears pricking her eyes, and rubbed them away. She took a deep shuddering breath. “They were slaughtered, Drelethyn. Even the children… no one was left alive. It didn’t matter if they were part of Dagoth Ur’s betrayal or not. They were of House Dagoth. So they were cut down.”

Drelethyn looked peaked when she looked at him, a deeply troubled expression on his face.

“The House war to start all House wars,” he said wearily. “For all our enemies, it seems we’ll always hate each other more than we hate any outlander.”

“Was your war that bad?” S’en asked softly.

“No,” Drelethyn said. “But it was nearly that bad.” 

S’en bit her lip again, worrying at the flesh as she considered Drelethyn’s words. It was no wonder why the Morag Tong was created as an alternative resolution to conflicts, to prevent war erupting between the Houses. Assassination led to the death of the intended by writ. War led to the death of hundreds. Innocents. The young Dagoth boy from her dream came once more to mind, his wide eyes full of fear. She shuddered.


	32. Kogoruhn, 3E 415

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: This is not a new chapter, technically.
> 
> Over the time I have been writing Wasten Coridale I have also been editing it, in response to things I've both noticed and things mentioned to me. When this story was being updated regularly, often I wouldn't update Ao3 chapters unless completely necessary with these edits, because it made for a confusing and not-fun reading experience when everything's being shifted around constantly. However, this has caused there to be two separate versions of Wasten Coridale - the version posted on Ao3 and the far more refined version in my working manuscript, which contained _over 6,000 more words_ than the online version.
> 
> This story took a forced, extended hiatus as I recovered from a near-death experience, and only now in the midst of a plague no one saw coming am I finally returning to this story. I'd intended to wait to overhaul the entire thing until after I finished it, but given the long time between posting and a number of people telling me they intended to re-read the entire thing, I elected to instead do so now. 
> 
> Nothing, plot-wise, has fundamentally changed at all. If you wish to simply wait for the new update knowing what you already do, you won't be lost in the story. If you wish to re-read the entire story from the beginning, props to you. If you're merely interested in seeing the extra content, my best suggestion is to start from Piran and read from there - the brunt of the added content is within that instance and in Nchuleftingth, which has been extended from two chapters to three chapters.
> 
> I care deeply about Wasten Coridale and have every intention of finishing the story. It may take some time, as I still am recovering psychologically and emotionally from an extremely terrifying situation. I'm fine now, don't worry about me. Productivity is just difficult sometimes. As always, thank you so much for reading. Your love for S'en, extensive feedback, and wonderful support mean more to me than I can put into words.

Drelethyn let out a weary sound, the long night seeming to catch up with him. Shifting, S’en guided his head from her shoulder to her lap. He made no move to protest as she gently brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Mmm,” he hummed. Opening his eyes, his gaze fixated on S’en’s talisman, which swayed close to his nose. Her touches stilled as he reached up and grasped the cord just above the stone, pulling it away from his face a little to get a better look at it. “Did you ever find out what this thing is anyhow?”

“No. I haven’t,” S’en said, shaking her head.

“It’s powerful,” Drelethyn said, watching as it slowly rocked back and forth. “And its old. This framework it’s in looks Dwemer-made.” He tapped the metal contraption that embraced the stone it held.

“There was more to the dream I had about this place.”

“There was?” Drelethyn released the talisman and looked up at her. 

“Mmhmm.” S’en looked contemplative, her gaze distant. “After I saw the razing of the city… I spoke to Lorkhan.”

“To _Lorkhan?_ ” 

“Yes.” S’en frowned. She looked down at Drelethyn. “I don’t think… that this was the first time I’ve met him in my dreams. I just didn’t know what I was looking at before now.”

“What did he have to say?” Drelethyn asked. 

“He didn’t,” S’en said. “I tried asking him why you and I were dragged into this, and if he wanted us to find Cor’s creation, but he didn’t say anything until I asked him what he wanted. Then he just told me to wake up. And then I did.” 

“Well, that’s not helpful.” 

“I think he wants us to figure it out for ourselves,” S’en said. “That he wants _us_ to decide if we want to continue down this road.” 

“It’s not as though we have much choice otherwise,” Drelethyn groused.

“We _might_ have more choice than we think,” S’en said, “but even without siding with caution, knowing as much as we’ve uncovered without seeing it through until the end… I think it’d haunt me.” S’en frowned. She pulled off her talisman to hold it in her palm once more, scrutinizing the walnut-sized stone as she held it aloft above her face. “This was hot when I woke up.”

“The stone?” Drelethyn asked.

“Mmhmm.”

Drelethyn’s weight lifted from her legs. She looked down to see him propped up on one elbow, his other hand held out.

“May I?” he asked. S’en dropped the talisman into his palm. Drelethyn turned it between his fingers, studying the stone and the cage that surrounded it. “This was Serthi’s, right?”

S’en nodded. “I think it had something to do with him being able to use Fabrication,” she said. “I thought it was why I was able to, as well, but Dagoth Mulis apparently thought otherwise.”

“Remind me how he said Fabrication works?”

“It’s creatia. He said that it was taught to House Dagoth by the Dwemer, but that they needed some connection to Lorkhan to use it. ‘Forge a connection to the will and corpse of Lorkhan’ I think were his exact words.”

Drelethyn sat up. He put the talisman down on the blanket and looked at her very intently. “The corpse? He said that? Are you certain?”

“I am. It was disturbing, which is why it stuck in my head. Why?”

“The Heart of Lorkhan is a stone.”

S’en looked at the red stone, then at Drelethyn, then at the stone again.

Pulsing. _Alive._

“Oh,” she said, quietly.

They sat there, the stone resting between them, glowing softly once more.

“Surely it’s not the whole Heart?” S’en asked.

“No. Definitely not,” Drelethyn said. “The Heart was still in Red Mountain past Cor’s death. Its absence would have been noticed. This must be a piece of it.”

“A piece of the Heart?”

“That’d be my guess. Although, according to scripture, the Heart Bone is the one bone that cannot be cut. If that’s true, this stone being a piece of the Heart should be impossible, but it seems no less impossible than the _rest_ of what we’ve been dealing with.”

“Maybe Lorkhan consented to it.”

“To having his heart cut.”

“Mmhmm. Perhaps that would make a difference.”

“It’s possible,” Drelethyn conceded. “Makes sense with how he doesn’t seem particularly _mad_ that we have a piece of his Heart. If this is a piece of his Heart.”

“Right. If it is.”

They continued to look at the stone, neither of them making any move to pick it up. 

“Is it wrong that I’m not sure if I want to wear it again?” S’en asked.

“I would be thinking the same if I were you,” Drelethyn said. “Then again, it hasn’t killed or possessed you yet.”

“You’re right, it hasn’t,” she said. Cautiously, she reached out to touch it, immediately flinching back the moment she felt her fingers come into contact with the warm stone. Nothing happened, and S’en picked it up. She turned it over in her hands. “I’m betting this is the broken-heart-unlocking thing that Cor mentioned was needed to activate the life-support machine that is _probably_ for Lorkhan.”

“None of this explains the bit about Wasten Cordiale, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here,” Drelethyn retrieved a piece of paper and held it out to her, presumably so she could read it. “Cor insinuates that your stone there is not only the key to activating the machine, but is the key to Wasten Coridale itself.”

“I thought Wasten Coridale was locked by the Trials,” S’en said, handing the page back after giving it a cursory glance. She frowned, fiddling with a bit on the metal cage of the talisman. Strange, that hadn’t been loose before. 

“As did I, but now I’m not so sure what we can expect.”

“Does she mention where Wasten Coridale is at all?” The bit of metal turned, clicking into a different configuration, revealing another moving piece. S’en turned that as well, continuing to absently fidget with the contraption.

“No.” Drelethyn sighed. “I guess that’s information she might’ve not foreseen being lost. She may have expected someone to figure this out long before you and I came along.”

S’en pressed on a rounded junction in the framework, and suddenly the stone began to glow brightly, growing hot to the touch. She gasped, pulling her hands away. The talisman hung floating in the air, the light growing more intense as the framework surrounding the stone continued to turn and click, reconfiguring itself. Then the stone flashed, illuminating the interior of the ruined hut in a blinding red light. S’en immediately threw up her hands, shielding her eyes from the light’s intensity. She heard Drelethyn swear. 

The light faded, drawn back into the stone, where it was held for a moment before a beam erupted from the stone, pointing East. The talisman fell, bouncing lightly on the blanket where it landed. The beam of light remained, emanating from the stone, still pointing in the same direction as before.

“What did you do?” Drelethyn asked, staring at the talisman warily.

“I don’t know,” S’en said. Hesitantly, she reached out and tapped the talisman once more. It was warm, but cool enough to hold. Picking it up, she turned it over. The stone had somehow grown; she had to cradle it in both her hands now. It was heavy, roughly the size of a heart, too large to be feasibly worn anymore. It still lay nestled in the Dwemeri-framework that surrounded it, but its configuration had changed, encircling the stone now rather than forming a cage as it had before. The beam emanating from the stone remained steady, pointing in the same direction no matter which way she turned it. “It’s leading us to Wasten Coridale,” she said, struck with a sudden certainty.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Drelethyn muttered.

“Should— we should. We _should_ follow it,” S’en said quietly, decision made for herself. 

“It’s past time to move camp anyhow. We’re pushing our luck by staying here as long as we have.” Drelethyn let out a groan. “Saints is my back _mad_ at me.” 

“You old man,” S’en teased, “I did all the work.”

He gave her a playful shove on the shoulder. She smirked and stood, brushing the ash from her clothes. She crouched before the hearth, pushing the ash she had cleared from the hearth back into place to suffocate the flames and douse the fire. S’en contemplated for a moment whether or not she should hide the Dagoth Scarab once more before deciding to leave it as is, feeling as though covering up the history of this place would only to be further stepping on the ghosts of those who died here long ago. 

Auro had waited out the ash storm in another nearby ruin, tethered to a fallen wood beam. S’en fed the guar as Drelethyn loaded the tent and their packs onto the creature’s back once more. Then they were off, crossing through the rest of Kogoruhn as they continued eastward. S’en bade Drelethyn to stop as they passed the mass grave once more. S’en dug through her pack that hung from Auro’s flank for a moment, retrieving from it a bottle of _sujamma_ given to her by the master-at-arms in the Maar Gan Outpost and a bone-beaded rosary the Temple priests had given her for protection. These she took with her as she wove her way through the sea of grave markers, pausing to pick a few fire flowers from the wild ferns that grew there. When she was about in the center of the mass grave, she kneeled by a marker. She wrapped the rosary around the wooden stake, and placed the bottle of _sujamma,_ the fire flowers, and the pottery shard she had found elsewhere in Kogoruhn’s ruins at the base of the stake.

The scuffing of boots on the dry ground bade her look up, where she saw that Drelethyn had come to stand beside her. 

“Dagoth Ur may be a danger, but these people were innocent,” S’en said, looking back down at the offerings she had laid before the grave marker. “They didn’t deserve what happened to them. They don’t deserve to be forgotten.”

S’en had no prayers to offer them. She knew of no words that could serve as a balm to the ghosts of those who had died here. The only sermon she had ever witnessed was the one she’d accidentally walked into at the Temple in Molag Mar. S’en didn’t know what a funeral entailed, even; she was never told what had happened to her mother’s body when they had found it. She had only been informed of her death, and of her debt that was now S’en’s to repay. There was no funeral; there rarely was in the red-lantern district. They were supposed to be the ones no one would miss, after all.

Drelethyn cleared his throat, and began to speak:

     “ _Upon the altar of Padhome_

_Built in the House of Boet-hi-Ah_

_In the ember-hot from which you were birthed_

_To rest on the bones of your ancestors_

_Beyond the reaches of mortal tongues_

_Scorned lovers of pith and tithe_

_And we will carry the burdens dropped from your fingers_ …”

S’en looked up at Drelethyn from where she still kneeled, surprised. She stood as well, and remained quiet as he continued to recite the funeral prayer, turning her attention back to the grave marker before she let her eyes shut.

     “ _The shalk says unto you, your house is safe now_

_The fire fern says unto you, we will wait_

_The ash says unto you, we will wait_

_Resdaynia says unto you, we will wait_ …” 

Here he paused. Normally the prayer would close with an invocation of ALMSIVI, but Drelethyn felt it would find no place here.  “ _Veloth guide your passage_ ,” he said instead, hoping the Saint of Pilgrims would be a fitting enough invocation. 

S’en slipped her hand into Drelethyn’s own, lacing their fingers together. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Not another word was spoken as they solemnly left the mass grave, their hands still entwined. They had no set destination, simply looking to put distance between them and the ruined Dagoth capital. As they reached the crest of a hill at the perimeter, S’en turned back to give the ruins of Kogoruhn one last, sympathetic look before she continued on.


End file.
